POEMS  OF 
EARTH'S  MEANING 


OTHER   VERSE 
BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

RAHAB,  A  POETIC  DRAMA 

Henry  Holt  and  Company.  New  York 

DUMB  IN  JUNE 

MEMORIAL  DAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

LYRICS  OF  BROTHERHOOD 

MESSAGE  AND  MELODY 

The  Lothrop.  Lee  and  Shepard  Co.,  Boston 

FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE 

Little^  Brown  and  Co.,  Boston 


POEMS  OF  EARTH'S 
MEANING 


BY 

RICHARD  BURTON 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Published  May,  1917 


THE    QUINN    4    BODEN    CO.    PHEJ 
HA  M  WAY,   N.  J. 


To  my  friend 
EDMUND  D.  BROOKS 


Thanks  are  herewith  tendered  the  editors  of  The 
Atlantic,  Harper's  Magazine,  The  Century,  Scrib- 
ner's,  The  North  American  Review,  The  Bookman, 
The  Outlook,  The  Independent,  The  Bellman,  and 
Poetry,  for  permission  to  reprint  such  pieces  as 
originally  appeared  in  their  pages.  Special  obliga- 
tions are  due  my  friend,  Edmund  D.  Brooks,  who 
mostly  kindly  permits  me  to  reprint  "  A  Midsum- 
mer Memory." 


vii 


SINGING  FAITH 
(R.  G.  H.) 

DARKNESS  and  doubt  and  despair 
Vanish,  at  touch  of  the  May ! 

Song?    It  inhabits  the  air; 
Love?    It  bewitches  the  way. 

Ah,  if  we  trust,  comes  the  song, 
(Hark !)  and  the  breath  of  it  sweet; 

Surer,  for  waiting  so  long, 
Fairer,  for  being  so  fleet. 

If  we  have  faith!    And  we  must: 
Faith  that  shall  wholly  redeem, 

Faith  that  shall  hallow  the  dust, 
Faith,  the  fulfilment  of  Dream. 

Darkness  and  doubt  and  despair 
Vanish,  at  touch  of  the  May ! 

Song?    It  inhabits  the  air; 
Love?    It  bewitches  the  way. 


viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SINGING  FAITH viii 

A  MIDSUMMER  MEMORY 3 

THE  POET'S  DESIRE 21 

AN  HOUR  OF  HOURS     .       .       .      .      .       .      .       .22 

THE  EARTH  MOTHER 24 

HER  EYES 25 

THE  NAME 26 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  WORDS 27 

DESOLATED  GARDENS 29 

HERE  LIES  PIERROT 31 

PILLAR  WORK 33 

CLOWNS'   DAY         34 

LITTLE  SISTER 36 

SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  LAND 38 

THE  HOME-RETURNING 40 

ALLAN'S  MOTHER 41 

To  A  CRIPPLED  COMRADE 44 

To  EACH  His  DREAM 45 

THE   FAR-OFF    DAY 47 

FELLOWSHIP 48 

FIRST  PRIZE 49 

DREAM  GARDEN 50 

SPRING  FANTASIES          52 

ASPECTS  OF  AUTUMN 61 

HEROES 66 

THE  CHILDREN'S  BOATS 68 

DON  QUIXOTE 69 

THE  SECRET  PLACE 70 

VIGIL 71 

SONG 73 

ix 


x  Contents 

PAGE 

CONQUERING  EAGLES 73 

THE  MESSAGE          75 

GUILTY 77 

HAGAR 78 

HUMAN 79 

WITHDRAWALS          80 

YOUNGSTER  AND   OLDSTER 81 

BETTER  So 82 

GARDEN  CLOSES 83 

THE  OLD  COUPLE 85 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ROSE 87 

THE  DERELICT          88 

FACE  TO  FACE 91 

THE  CAMBERWELL  GARDEN 92 

GARDEN  LORE 94 

THE  SECOND  BAPTISM 95 

THE  SPIRIT  SHALL  NOT  DIE 96 

AN  IMPRESSION 98 

LOVE  AND  TIME 99 

ROMANCE           100 

THE  DEAR  ADVENTURER 102 

IDOLS           103 

GLIMPSES  OF  ITALY 104 

APERCUS 108 

Music  MYSTERY no 

HIGH  AND  Low in 

VITA  BREVIS  EST 112 

WORDS  OF  PARTING 113 


A   MIDSUMMER  MEMORY 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Arthur  Upson 


Note 

ARTHUR  UPSON,  whom  the  following  poem  com- 
memorates, was  drowned  from  his  boat  in  Bemidji 
Lake,  Minnesota,  in  the  early  evening  of  August 
14,  1908,  in  the  thirty-second  year  of  his  age.  A 
lyric,  just  written,  found  in  the  empty  boat,  is  the 
"  swan  song,"  referred  to  in  stanza  XLV  of  the 
elegy.  He  had  that  very  day  completed  a  poetic 
drama  entitled  "  Gauvaine  of  The  Retz,"  dealing 
with  the  Pornic  legend  of  Gold  Hair ;  but  the  manu- 
script disappeared  with  him  and  has  never  been 
found.  During  some  ten  years  of  literary  activity, 
he  published  half  a  dozen  volumes  of  verse  and 
since  his  death  his  collected  poems  have  appeared 
in  two  large  volumes.  Before  his  passing,  recog- 
nition had  come  to  him  from  distinguished  critics 
and  he  was  known  to  the  few  who  treasure  good 
poetry;  the  publishing  of  his  collected  works  has 
already  begun  to  secure  the  wider  hearing  his  song 
deserves. 

It  was  under  the  branches  of  an  ancient  yew  tree 
in  the  garden  of  Wadham  college,  Oxford,  that 
Upson  conceived  the  "  Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Gar- 
den," one  of  his  best  works.  The  yew  was  his 
favorite  tree  and  was  used  as  a  design  for  his  note- 
paper.  There  is  an  allusion  to  this  in  stanzas 
XXXVI-XXXVII.  The  poet's  predilection  for 
the  water,  also  alluded  to  in  the  elegy,  was  well 
known  to  his  intimate  friends. 


A   MIDSUMMER   MEMORY 
I 


SWIFT  April  ardors  bring  the  white  of  May, 

May  merges  into  leafy  June,  and  all 
Mid  splendors  of  full  summer  gild  the  day 
And  make  the  night  an  odorous  festival 
'Twixt  star  and  sod;  and  yet,  how  wan  the  cheer, 
I  miss  thee,  Arthur,  thou  no  more  art  here 
To  taste  the  beauty,  laud  the  crescent  year. 

ii 
Strange  is  thine  absence,  since  no  son  of  man 

Felt  deeplier  in  his  blood  the  summer  lure; 
Nor  sang  more  sweetly,  while  the  caravan 

Of  months  passed  stately  by,  nor  was  so  sure 
To  list  shy  sounds,  to  smell  the  hidden  flowers 
And  rediscover  earth's  reluctant  bowers. 

in 
Yea,  strange  and  sad.    No  thrush  that  flutes  alone 

Amidst  the  thicket  but  reminds  of  thee, 
As,  silver  sweet  and  shy,  he  makes  his  moan; 
No  single  bloom  midst  garden  pageantry 
3 


4  A  Midsummer  Memory 

But  doth  declare  thee  to  my  musing  mind: 
The  presence  gone,  thy  semblance  left  behind. 

IV 

In  this  thou  livest  and  shalt  ever  live : 

Of  all  the  beauty  of  the  breathing  days 
Thou  art  inextricably  a  part,  dost  give 

An  added  loveliness,  a  new  amaze; 
Mine  in  the  meadows,  mine  beside  the  leas, 
Mine  when  I  meet  (since  thou  art  part  of  these) 
The  splendor  of  the  sunsets  and  the  seas ! 


Were  spring  and  summer  half  so  fair,  if  first 
They  came  into  a  world  that  knew  them  not? 

Should  we  receive  as  now  the  thrilling  burst 
Of  bud  and  bird-song,  if  each  vernal  spot 

Had  never  known  the  resurrection  bliss? 

Is  not  our  love  of  summer  made  up  of  this 

Welcoming  the  old  friend  that  summer  is? 

VI 

And  so  with  thee, — the  beauty  and  the  joy 
Were  never  half  to  me  so  holy-deep 

As  since  that  thou  art  vanished,  comrade,  boy, 
Dear  singer,  singing  yet,  although  asleep. 

I  see  all  through  thine  eyes,  I  feel  thee  by, 

I  know  that  Memory  will  not  let  thee  die. 


A  Midsummer  Memory  5 

VII 

Hark!     Tis  the  river-lay  beyond  the  hill. 

How  often  when  we  flee  the  city-spell 
And  gleeful  turn  to  Nature,  thence  to  fill 

Our  souls  with  peace  and  joyance,  and  to  quell 
The  strife,  we  recognize  old  mother  earth 
As  calling,  calling  to  us  in  tender  mirth ; 
How  long-witholden  secrets  come  to  birth! 


VIII 

Arthur,  thy  winsomeness  of  mood  and  mien, 
Now  treasured  up  in  hearts  that  still  are  strong, 

Must  gradually,  as  fade  the  leaves,  I  ween, 
Pass  with  those  hearts  the  fleeting  years  along: 

But  O  thy  golden  words !  they  still  shall  claim 

Long  life  and  honor  and  a  singing  fame ! 


IX 

Thy  golden  words!    Nay,  silver  were  they  too; 

Betimes,  like  sounding  brass  they  summoned  us ; 
Again,  with  dulcet  pleading,  pierced  us  through 

Whenso  the  hour  was  soft  and  amorous; 
Or  yet  again,  with  pomp  and  purple  pride 
They  seemed  to  open  up  down  vistas  wide 
All  ancient  glories  that  have  lived  and  died! 


6  A  Midsummer  Memory 

x 

What  pride  in  chanting  hath  a  forest  bird? 

Doth  any  sunset  with  most  spangled  dress 
Greeting  the  morn,  e'er  speak  a  haughty  word? 

Is  not  all  nature  one  in  humbleness? 
So  wert  thou  humble,  priest  of  beauty,  dead 
Untimely,  leaving  us  discomforted. 


XI 

There  is  companionship  too  close  for  speech: 
Wordless  communion  is  the  best,  meseems; 

Such  is  betwixt  us,  and  our  spirits  reach 
To  touch  and  mingle,  waking  or  in  dreams : 

The  union  deepens,  even  as  skies  at  eve 

Grow  mellow  when  the  garish  day-things  leave. 

XII 

The  green  of  marshes  hath  another  hue 
From  that  of  inland  meadows,  and  the  scent, 
Salt  of  the  sea  and  pungent,  interblent 
With  memories  of  sails  upon  the  blue, 
Comes  from  another  world  from  that  of  hay 
After  June  mowing;  more  unlike  than  they 
Life  seems,  companion  mine,  with  thee  away. 


XIII 

I  hardly  know  if  sorrow  or  content 
Have  mastery  as  I  brood  upon  thy  loss: 


A  Midsummer  Memory  7 

Such  comforting  large  thoughts  are  someway  blent 

With  haunting  pain;  the  shadow  of  a  cross 
Is  all  uplit  with  radiance,  and  a  voice 
Weeping,  becomes  a  voice  that  doth  rejoice, 
Although  it  wots  not  it  hath  made  the  choice. 


XIV 

The  bronze  magnificence  of  autumn  woke 
In  thee  an  ecstasy  that  rivaled  spring; 

It  seemed  as  if  some  pent-up  rapture  broke 
All  bounds,  when  regal  summer,  on  the  wing, 

Paused  momently  to  hover,  and  became 

A  miracle  of  slumber  and  of  flame. 

xv 
Then  wert  thou  fain  to  weave  on  wonder  looms 

Utterance  of  joy,  stretching  out  eager  hands 
To  May  and  eke  October,  apple  blooms 

Fellowing  with  asters,  in  such  cunning  strands 
Of  woven  fairness,  that  two-fold  delight 
Was  in  the  pattern  of  such  colors  dight. 

XVI 

There  came  an  eve  whose  colors,  like  dim  strains 

Of  old  forgotten  music,  softly  stole 
Into  the  sundown  skies;  the  subtle  stains 

Of  gray  and  pink  and  russet  made  a  whole 
Harmonious  utterly;  which  faded  slow 
Into  the  mist-and-gold  of  night,  and  lo, 
Even  the  stars  were  muffled  in  their  glow ! 


8  'A  Midsummer  Memory 

XVII 

Then  felt  I  need  of  thee  to  share  the  sight: 
It  was  too  delicate  to  win  the  praise 

Of  many  easy-moved  to  quick  delight 
In  obvious  skies  that  follow  usual  days; 

But  this,  so  marvelous  in  mood  and  tone, 

This  afterglow  seemed  meant  for  us  alone. 

XVIII 

Alas,  the  summer  waits  thee!    All  her  shows 
Heaped  up  and  heavenly  proffer  thee  their  boon, 

And  yet  in  vain  the  great  procession  goes; 
Its  chronicler  no  more  beneath  the  moon, 

Nor  when  the  noon  is  high,  walks  as  of  yore: 

Thy  passing  hath  bereaved  both  sea  and  shore, 

The  very  sea  seems  silent  evermore! 


II 


XIX 

The  summer  means  renewal  of  old  loves: 
Again  I  meet  the  friendly  wayside  things 
So  tenderly  recalled  from  other  springs, 

And  in  the  mellow  murmuring  of  ringed  doves 

I  seem  to  hear  remembered  messages; 

It  is  another  youth  with  all  of  these. 

xx 

But  how  with  thee?    May  we  fond  mortals  take 
This  blithe  rejuvenescence  for  a  sign 

That  likewise  man,  death's  conqueror,  shall  break 
The  shackles  of  long  slumber,  drain  the  wine 

Of  ruddy  life  again,  resume  the  dear 

Deep  fellowships  he  knew  when  he  was  here? 

XXI 

All  Nature  rises :  sap  climbs  up  the  bole, 

The  flower-hand  pricks  the  soil,  the  tiny  leaf 
Spreads  sunward;  shall  this  struggling  wight,  the 

soul, 

Alone  be  doomed  never  to  burst  the  sheaf? 
Gladly  to  grow,  soaring  elate  to  sing, 
Such  seems  the  fate  of  each  created  thing. 

9 


io  'A  Midsummer  Memory 

XXII 

Two  inconceivables :  that  we  can  win 

Our  way  from  that  dread  land  where  silence 

reigns, 
Where  all  our  kind  at  length  are  gathered  in, 

When  blood  no  more  leaps  buoyant  in  our  veins  ; 
A  place  where  there  is  neither  glee  nor  grief, — 
That  we  return  from  this,  surpasses  belief. 

XXIII 

But  also  it  is  dark  to  understand 

How  my  so  dominant  spirit  can  be  quenched 
Forever:  I  am  lord  of  all  the  land 

Today,  tomorrow  from  dominion  wrenched. 
How  meaningless  it  looks,  the  bright,  brief  glory, 
Sad  with  the  shortness  of  all  human  story, 
Sweet  as  the  mocking-bird's  rich  repertory! 

XXIV 

Sometimes  I  step  into  the  scented  night 
And  feel  a  breathing  Presence ;  then  my  fears 

Vanish,  and  in  their  stead  comes  calm  delight; 
The  home-call  of  the  earth  is  in  mine  ears; 

The  universe  throbs  love,  all  life  is  one, 

Swift  through  the  velvet  dark  I  find  the  sun. 

xxv 

But  the  mood  passes,  and  the  mystery 
That  shuts  us  in,  crushes  the  mounting  soul; 


'A  Midsummer  Memory  n 

Passes  the  hope  as  well  of  me-and-thee ; 

The  fond  reunion  and  the  final  goal; 
O  Arthur,  then  both  life  and  loving  seem 
The  obliterated  moment  of  a  dream. 


XXVI 

Despite  the  fear,  the  gnawing  unbelief, 
Thy  presence  were  no  miracle,  I  know, 

If  suddenly  I  saw  thee:  then  my  grief 
Would  be  as  it  had  never  been,  for  O 

Tis  easier  far  to  feel  thee  close  at  hand, 

Than  banish  one  so  bright  to  Shadow-land. 


XXVII 

Once  when  the  spring  brought  lilacs  to  a  town 
Loved  of  us  both,  we  planned  how  we  should 

wend 

Together  to  that  place  of  high  renown 
Where  sage  and  dreamer  dwelt,  and  tall  trees 

bend 

Above  their  sleep, — a  precious  spot.    We  said: 
"  Tomorrow  " ;  and  "  tomorrow  " ;  spring-tide  sped, 
We  never  went, — and,  Arthur,  thou  art  dead ! 


XXVIII 

The  heavens  were  kindlier  in  the  mythic  age: 
The  sun,  a  shining  god,  gave  gifts  to  men; 


12  A  Midsummer  Memory 

The  moon,  fair  women  wight,  was  human  then, 
And  stars  were  jewels  on  the  poet's  page. 
One  who  had  lost  his  friend  might  converse  hold, 
Leaning  to  listen  up  those  courts  of  gold. 

XXIX 

But  we  are  wiser  now ;  the  sky  recedes 
And  all  its  friendly  populace  is  fled. 

Time,    Space    and    Substance    mock    our    deepest 

needs, 
The  heart  goes  hungry  for  the  old  faiths  dead ; 

So  must  I  seek  for  thee  beyond  the  bars, 

Higher  than  suns,  behind  the  outmost  stars. 

xxx 

But  seek  I  will!  and  faithful  in  the  quest 
I  swear  to  be  so  long  as  life  may  last. 

Of  all  chill  thoughts,  this  is  the  hatefulest: 

That,  slow  but  sure,  the  friendship- freighted  past 

Should  fade,  and  I  be  satisfied  to  live 

Unmindful,  nor,  as  once,  my  homage  give. 

XXXI 

If  there  be  torture  for  the  dear  ones  gone, 
It  must  be  in  the  thought  that  they  are  quite 

Forgotten :  not  one  soul  to  reckon  on, 

Of  all  who  pledged  them  faith  in  death's  despite. 

Alas,  Sad  Heart,  if  thou  return  to  see 

Another  in  thy  place  and  strange  to  thee! 


A  Midsummer  Memory  '13 

XXXII 

Hear  me,  dear  Arthur,  by  whatever  shore 
Thou  pacest !    As  the  year  brings  round  the  rose, 
As  winter  wanes  and  all  the  harshness  goes 

Out  of  the  ground;  as  balmier  airs  restore 

Midsummer's  soft  elysian  miracle, 

And  earth  resumes  the  witch-work  of  her  spell, — 

XXXIII 

I  shall  renew  the  sweet  old  habitudes 

Were  ours,  forget  thee  never,  cherish  fond 

Each  look  and  tone  and  word,  as  one  who  broods 
On  something  sacred  from  a  land  beyond 

These  present  troublings ;  hear  the  oath  I  swear : 

Where  I  am  thou  shalt  be,  forever  there! 

xxxiv 
Summer  shall  be  the  bond  that  binds  us  twain, 

Midsummer's  purple  pleasance  be  a  tryst 
Both  of  us  haste  to  keep,  and  find  again 

Solace  and  comradeship  the  happiest 
That  men  e'er  knew;  midsummer's  mounting  tide 
Of  beauty  still  shall  bear  us  side  by  side 

xxxv 
Unto  the  haven  where  all  dreams  come  true: 

For  in  this  bounty  of  the  gracious  year 
;     There  is  no  room  for  grieving,  every  tear 
Is  dried,  and  every  hurt  attended  to; 
Together  in  the  summer,  thou  and  I, 
Surely,  such  brothership  can  never  die! 


Ill 


XXXVI 

Lover  of  trees  wert  thou,  but  loved  the  best 
The  ancient  yew  a-muse  in  gardens  old ; 

Beneath  her  branches,  as  the  sun  rode  west, 
Came  many  a  dream  too  fair  to  quite  unfold, 

And  many  a  note  of  sorrow  and  of  glee; 

Ineffable  fondness  seemed  'twixt  her  and  thee. 

XXXVII 

Was  it  because,  imprisoned  in  the  bole, 

Creature  of  sylvan  glades  and  twilight  moods, 
A  slim,  bright  girl  yearned  toward  thee  in  her  soul 

And  lured  thee  ever  back  to  walk  the  woods? 
If  so,  thou  shouldst  have  slept,  all  dreamings  past, 
Tranquil  beneath  the  shade  her  leafage  cast, 
Keeping  a  solemn  tryst,  loved  to  the  last. 

xxxvin 
But  no,  another  Presence  with  a  cry 

Deeper,  more  constant,  drew  thee  to  thy  doom, 
Haunted  thy  waking,  nixy-like  lurked  nigh, 
Sang  requiems  of  rest  within  the  tomb; 
Strong  was  the  tree-call,  strong  through  all  thy 

days, 

But  still  more  potent  were  the  waterways. 

14 


rA  Midsummer  Memory  J5 

XXXIX 

The  waterways  are  wondrous ;  rivers,  lakes, 
And  bubbly  well-runs  in  the  inner  wood, 

Each  has  a  voice  that  merry  music  makes 
Or  mournful,  by  the  spirit  understood: 

Ever  the  ocean  with  her  organ  tones 

Sings  round  the  capes,  or  up  the  long  sand  moans. 

XL 
All  the  world  sang  for  thee;  woodwind  and  brass 

Made  tonal  harmonies  to  haunt  thine  ear; 
The  thinnest  song  from  out  the  summer  grass, 

The    tempest's    choral-work,    and,    sphere    by 

sphere, 

The  stars  of  God,  chanting  their  rhythm  clear, 
All,  all  made  music,  all  to  thee  were  dear. 
Woods,  winds,  and  waters,  how  they  drew  thy  soul, 
Up,  out,  and  ever  toward  its  destined  goal ! 

XLI 
The  water-call  for  thee  was  constant  lure: 

No  Undine  in  a  fable  heard  more  sweet 
The  cool,  soft  croon,  nor  better  loved  the  pure 

Deep  invitation  where  the  mermaids  meet. 
So  wert  thou  fain  thine  hours  of  ease  to  spend 
Upon  the  bosom  of  this  calling  friend. 

XLII 

False  friend  and  fateful  day  when  thou  didst  glide 
Ghost-like,  at  twilight,  in  the  tiny  boat 


1 6  A  Midsummer  Memory 

Out  through  the  shadows  of  the  eventide 

Into  the  open  waters,  there  to  float 
And  dream;  for  as  thou  dream'st,  some  evil  thing 
Reached  from  the  waves  to  seize  thy  life,  and  bring 
Deep  sadness  unto  all  who  dream  and  sing. 


XLIII 

The  ebon  trees  against  the  saffron  sky 
At  sunset-time  attended  thee;  the  day 
Was  fading,  fading,  tranquilly  away 
And  soon  the  stars  would  shine  serene  and  high ; 
Husht  were  the  waves,  the  looming  woods  were 

ware, 
Clad  in  the  half  light,  rising  mystic  there, 

XLIV 

Of  thee  and  of  thy  handiwork;  Fate  drew, 
Along  with  thee,  under  the  shadowy  piers 

Thy  last,  lost  story-song  wherein  anew 
Was  told  a  legend  out  of  elder  years : 

Sweet  Gold  Hair  lived  and  loved  beneath  the  sun; 

Not  ours  but  thine  is  she,  till  Time  be  done. 

XLV 

Fain  of  the  summer  thou,  so  it  was  meet 
That  on  her  midmost  day  of  song  and  shine 

Thy  life  should  cease;  surely  such  end  is  sweet: 
What  seemlier  close  could  heart  of  man  divine 


rA  Midsummer  Memory  17 

Than  while  the  twilight  tints  ensoul  the  sky, 
Part  of  the  rapture  of  the  sun's  good-bye, 
Swan-like  to  sing  and,  singing,  so  to  die? 


XLVI 

I  see  two  shapes  that  greet  thee  on  the  shore 
Whereof  the  sun  shines  through  eternal  time; 

Twin  lords  of  Beauty,  beautiful  to  name, 
Who  make  life  musical  with  lovely  rime; 

Above  whatever  once  they  knew  of  shame, 
Despite  or  agony,  they  walk  and  smile, 

Princes  together,  such  forevermore. 

XLVI  i 

Keats,  who  like  thee  died  young,  and  Shelley  too 
Whom  the  wide  waters  swallowed;  surely  both 
Do  bid  thee  welcome,  feeling  nothing  loth 
To  hail  with  comrade  words  and  vision  true 
A  fellow  singer,  one  whose  flute  was  tuned 
To  such  a  sweetness  as  to  heal  death's  wound. 


XLVIII 

Rises  before  me  the  sweet,  eloquent  face, 
The  lithe  form  once  again  is  at  my  side, 

His  speech  is  in  mine  ear,  the  moving  grace 
Of  his  dear  presence  warms  the  morning  tide 

Or  makes  the  evening  lovely, — lo!  he's  there! 

I  reach  my  hand, — and  meet  the  empty  air. 

XLIX 

Nay,  but  that  air  shall  stir  to  the  rich  strains 
He  struck  upon  Life's  harp;  silence  shall  break 
Into  such  harmonies  for  Love's  sole  sake, 
As  when  a  flower  after  its  birth-pains, 
Bursts,  white  and  odorous  and  full  of  scent, 
Above  the  earth  to  bloom  for  man's  content. 

L 
Bloom  ever,  in  the  world's  song-garden  wide, 

Dear  one !    I'll  guard  thee  as  a  gardener 
Would  guard  the  growth  he  loves,  nor  let  beside 
Their  fairness  aught  unsightly  lift  or  stir; 
Winds  fraught  with  mignonette  and  Orient  myrrh 
Shall  make  thy  dim  walks  fragrant,  thy  retreat 
A  place  for  lovers,  thy  meanderings  sweet. 

18 


Midsummer  Memory  19 


LI 

And  O  so  long  as  love  is  love,  and  glee 

Comes  with  the  morning,  and  rich  beauty  broods 
In  twilight  skies;  so  long  as  interludes 

Of  music  snatch  the  soul  from  misery; 

So  long  as  souls  anhunger  for  delight; 

Arthur,  thy  words  shall  be  of  thrilling  might. 

LII 

The  soul  goes  single  that  hath  Beauty  known; 

Lovers  and  troops  of  friends  were  thine,  but  they 
Could  not  restrain  thee  from  thy  very  own : 

The  spirit-summons  from  the  Faraway. 
The  early  Arthur,  him  of  Camelot, 
Brooded  not  straitlier  on  his  mystic  lot. 

LIII 

Even  as  Arthur  of  the  Table  Round 

Followed  the  Gleam  and  fought  the  good  fight 

through, 
Then  floated  down  the  mere  unto  the  sound 

Of  flutes  that  like  soft  wind  forever  blew, 
So  thou  didst  straight  embark  and  with  a  smile 
Float  on  the  bosom  of  the  After-while. 


LIV 

The  pure  of  heart  are  blessed;  they  shall  fee 
God's  chosen,  he  is  close  to  them  alone. 


2O  'A  Midsummer  Memory 

Lover  of  earth,  now  heaven  hath  claim  on  thee, 
Boldly  thine  eyes  face  that  refulgency 

Of  more  than  mortal  keenness ;  for  thine  own 
Were  pure  indeed ;  forever  safe  thou  art, 
Because  thine  often-heavy  human  heart 
Rests,  circled  by  that  promise:  They  shall  seel 


THE  POET'S  DESIRE 

HE  craves  not  the  boon  of  pleasure, 

Nor  the  glory  of  the  earth, 
He  hears  in  the  music's  measure 
The  measure  of  all  worth. 
He  follows  a  mystic  Duty, 

Shy,  with  fathomless  eyes: 
And  yearns  for  the  vision  of  Beauty 
And  the  Voice  before  he  dies. 


£51 


AN  HOUR  OF  HOURS 

TOMORROW,  we  take  up  our  tasks 

That  sweep  us  toward  the  hidden  goal; 

Tomorrow,  we  resume  our  masks; 
Tonight,  we  meet  as  soul  to  soul. 

Mayhap  the  magic  of  the  moon 

Has  done  it,  or  the  breakers'  sound, 

Or  else  the  mocker's  madcap  tune 
Or  sweet  scents  stealing  from  the  ground. 

The  loneliness  has  proved  a  snare 
To  draw  us  close;  this  garden  place, 

Removed,  and  dim  and  passing  fair, 
Has  seized  us  with  its  subtle  grace, 

Made  us  forget,  recall  and  dream; 

And  so  we  sit  as  in  a  spell, 
Muse  on  the  glory  and  the  gleam 

Of  Life,  and  feel  that  all  is  well. 

The  words  unspoken  in  the  day 
Come  softly  to  our  lips;  our  hands 

Are  linked;  as  much  as  mortals  may, 
Each  looks  on  each  and  understands. 


An  Hour  of  Hours  23 

Yours  is  the  glamour  of  the  stars, 
And  mine  the  wisdom  of  the  years; 

The  tranquil  night  effaces  scars, 
Its  solace  wipes  away  all  tears. 

Yet  sorrow  broods  behind  each  breath 
To  lend  a  sharper  touch  of  bliss; 

For  joy  the  keenest  fellows  death 
And  peril  trembles  in  a  kiss. 

But  O  the  moonlit  world,  the  palms, 
The  passion  flowers,  the  smell  of  sea, 

How  they  do  proffer  us  their  balms 
Of  Beauty  and  of  Mystery! 

And  this  brief  while,  beneath  a  sky 

That  throbs  with  meanings  rich  and  strange, 

Luring  our  hearts  out,  you  and  I, 
Lifting  us  high  o'er  chance  and  change, 

Has  welded  us  and  made  us  one 
With  the  immortals;  they  who  live 

As  if  Fate  were  not,  and  the  sun 
Had  only  golden  gifts  to  give. 

The  heavens  go  gray,  the  dawn  is  near, 

Upfolded  are  the  tranced  flowers ; 
Remember,  we  were  happy,  Dear, 

For  this  sole,  sacred  hour  of  hours ! 


THE  EARTH  MOTHER 

THE  wise  old  Mother  lets  man  play  awhile — 
Even  as  a  child  with  toys — about  the  earth, 

Ere  she  shall  welcome  back,  with  sweet,  slow  smile, 
The  foolish  one  to  whom  her  throes  gave  birth. 

Tug  at  his  tether  as  he  may,  he  knows, 
Deep  in  his  heart,  that  she  is  always  by; 

He  feels  her  presence  underneath  the  snows, 
And  in  the  rain  of  autumn  hears  her  sigh. 

The  thrill  of  spring,  and  summer's  tilth  the  same, 
Remind  him  of  her  breathing  breast;  the  sea 

Is  her  unrest;  and  where  the  maples  flame, 
She  goes  decked  forth  in  mood  of  pleasantry. 

The  more  he  strays,  the  longer  battles  grim 

With  foes  or  friends,  playing  man's  shifting  role, 

The  surelier  doth  there  slow  uprise  in  him 

The  yearning  to  come  back  and  ease  his  soul; — 

To  take  her  hands  and  look  into  her  face 
And  kiss  her  forehead,  while  he  hears  her  say : 

"  Welcome,  my  dear,  to  the  old  wonted  place, 
Welcome  to  love,  and  sleep,  and  holiday." 
24 


HER  EYES 

ONCE,  long  ago,  a  little  one  of  mine 

Would  take  my  hand  and  look  into  my  face 

As  if  she  magically  might  divine 

My  tempted  heart,  my  imminent  disgrace. 

And  by  that  handclasp  and  that  wistful  look 
Would  turn  me  safely  in  the  better  way; 

Her  faith  so  perfect  that  I  could  not  brook 
The  thought  of  aught  to  waken  her  dismay. 

That  little  one  is  vanished;  o'er  her  head 

Blow  summer  blooms,  and  on  her  stone  you  read 

The  simple  story  of  the  life  she  led, 

Joyous  in  semblance,  pure  in  every  deed. 

And  even  yet,  across  the  dim  of  years, 

How  many,  comes  in  the  old  pleading  guise, 

To  keep  me  clean  from  all  that  soils  and  sears, 
The  Christ-like  candor  of  those  early  eyes. 


THE  NAME 

WHAT  tender  love  name  can  I  call  you  by? 

Not  that  of  every  hour  and  every  one ; 

I  would  not  take  what  others  have  begun 
To  soil  by  common  use ;  nay,  I  would  try 
To  lift  our  loving  to  some  far-hung  sky, 
i  To  bear  it  swift  beyond  each  blazing  sun 

And  in  a  demi-dark  divinely  spun 
Of  silver  moons,  to  syllable  it  shy. 

I  yield  to  none;  your  mother's  early  way 

Of  calling  you;  your  name  in  heaven  writ  clear, 
These  stand  for  holiness;  but  mine  must  be 
Other,  and  more :  its  very  sound  must  say : 
"  My  dear,  mine  own,  beloved  utterly, 
(My  sweet,  my  sweet,  and  yet  again,  my  dear  " ! 


26 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  WORDS 

WISTFUL  words,  singing  words,  come  to  me  at 

times, 

And  I  seize  them  lovingly,  weave  them  into  rhymes ; 
The  brave  things,  the  fair  things,  that  in  the  world 

I  see 
I   marry   to   these   winsome   words   in   song   and 

balladry. 

Some  words  they  stand  for  sorrow,  and  some  for 

tenderness ; 
They  touch  the  fount  of  tears,  they  fall  as  soft  as 

a  caress; 
They  ring  out  like  a  trumpet,  or  flute-like  plain  and 

plead, 
They  tell  of  noble  happenings  and  glorify  the  deed. 

Sweet  words,  they  are  the  saviours  of  my  dumb- 
stricken  soul, 

That  give  me  moving  power  and  vision  of  the  goal ; 

They  heal  the  helpless  cripple  and  make  the  feeble 
strong 

And  break  away  the  prison  bars  for  one  behind 
them  long. 


37 


28  The  Coming  of  the  Words 

I  cannot  know  the  moment  when  their  coming  may 

be  set, 

I  can  but  dumbly  wait  and  watch,  lest  haply  I  forget 
The  bliss  that  means  their  breathing,  the  cadence 

of  the  air 
They  play  upon  the  pipes  of  Life  to  make  it  smooth 

and  fair. 

But  O  the  joy  of  weaving,  and  O  the  beating  heart 
When  come  these  high-born  visitors  from  some  dim 

place  apart 

To  bide  with  me  a  little,  and  lift  me  on  a  flame 
Of  love,  and  give  my  longing  a  presence  and  a 

name! 


DESOLATED  GARDENS 

THE  trampling  armies  leave  discomfited 

How  many  a  garden !    Desolate  and  dead 

The  shining  flowers  whose  soul  breathed  up  to  God 

In  winsome  odors  from  the  quiet  sod. 

Where  the  rose  laughed,  the  dark  ensanguined  mire, 
And  where  the  birds  in  many  a  leafy  choir 
Greeted  the  sun,  the  cannon  and  the  shell 
Have  changed  an  Eden  to  a  shrieking  hell. 

No  lilies  left  that  erst  rose  tall  and  white, 
Nor  tulips  proud  a-blow,  nor  that  fair  sight, 
The  pansies  of  the  many-winking  eyes; 
Ah,  blight  for  bloom  and  rain  for  tranquil  skies! 

Of  old,  how  often  lovers  kept  a  tryst 
In  such  sweet  haunts,  how  tenderly  they  kissed; 
But  love  is  now  turned  hate,  the  very  grass 
Is  color-changed  with  blood  of  those  who  pass. 

Lovers  and  birds  alike  have  fled  the  place, 
The  writhen  body  and  the  upturned  face 
Know  naught  of  love  or  song  or  carefree  hours 
That  blessed  the  alleys  of  these  blameless  flowers. 

29 


30  Desolated  Gardens 

O  refuges  so  rifled  and  so  dim 
Of  color,  what  to  you  the  martial  hymn! 
How  sweet  ye  were  where  now  the  battle  raves, 
O  desolated  gardens,  with  your  graves ! 


HERE  LIES  PIERROT 

THE  moon's  ashine;  by  many  a  lane 
Walk  wistful  lovers  to  and  fro; 

It  must  be  like  old  days  again; 
How  they  do  love !    Here  lies  Pierrot. 

She  loved  me  once,  did  Columbine. 

It  sets  my  dusty  heart  aglow 
Merely  to  lie  and  dream  how  fine 

Her  semblance  was, — Here  lies  Pierrot! 

Her  perfumed  presence,  silks  and  lace, 
Did  madden  men  and  wrought  them  woe; 

For  me  alone  her  witching  grace. 
Where  is  she  now?    Here  lies  Pierrot. 

We  two  walked  once  beneath  the  moon — 
Yellow  it  hung,  and  large  and  low — 

And  listened  to  the  tender  tune 
Of  nightingales, — Here  lies  Pierrot! 

Our  foolish  vows  of  passion  shook 
The  very  stars,  they  trembled  so. 

How  it  comes  back,  her  soft,  shy  look, 
Now  I  am  dead !    Here  lies  Pierrot! 
31 


32  Here  Lies  Pierrot 

These  other  men  and  maids,  who  stroll 
Through  moonlit  poplar  trees  arow, 

Does  each  play  the  enchanted  role 
We  phantoms  played  ?    Here  lies  Pierrot! 

O  joy,  that  I  remember  yet 
Sweet  follies  of  the  long  ago! 

Dear  heaven,  I  would  not  quite  forget ! 
The  moon's  ashine ;  Here  lies  Pierrot! 


PILLAR  WORK 


"  And  upon  the  top  of  the  pillars  was  lily- work ;  so  was 
the  work  of  the  Pillars  finished."— I  Kings,  vii,  22. 


AMONG  the  flowers,  the  lily  blooms  supreme 
For  light  and  loveliness;  her  odorous  breath 

Floats  like  the  memory  of  some  delicate  dream, 
After  her  body  has  gone  down  to  death. 

Of  garden  growths  she  is  the  fairest  one; 

She  crowned  the  Temple  built  by  Solomon. 

Behold  the  task  completed!     Marble  strength 
And  ornament  of  precious  stone  were  there, 

But,  for  to  make  it  lovelier,  at  length 
They  wrought  a  work  of  lilies,  passing  fair, 

And  set  it  high  atop,  like  a  great  gem 

To  glow  and  glitter  in  Jerusalem. 

The  strength  that  flowers  in  Beauty  is  twice  strong. 

Four-square  the  Temple  stood ;  but  when  the  eye 
Looked  cloudward,  lo,  like  to  a  lofty  song, 

The  lily-work  made  glad  the  Orient  sky; 
And  all  the  worshipers  grew  hushed,  and  peace 
Fell  on  their  hearts,  and  heavenly  release. 


33 


CLOWNS'  DAY 

(Choosing  April  First  as  an  appropriate  day,  a  number 
of  professional  clowns  held  a  meeting  in  New  York  to 
perfect  a  permanent  organization.) 

BROTHER  fools  from  everywhere, 
Let  us  gather  and  grow  wise. 

Ours  the  day,  so  let  us  dare 
Show  the  world  our  sober  guise. 

We  must  mum  it  through  the  year, 
Hide  behind  the  painted  grin; 

Let  us  be  more  human  here, 
Men  of  memories,  men  of  sin. 

Life's  no  jest,  we  know  it  well  ; 

Care  lurks  close  behind  the  scene. 
Heaven's  not  half  so  sure  as  hell 

For  a  clown  whose  purse  is  lean. 

Ours  to  make  the  simple  laugh, 
Ours  to  give  the  sad  surcease ; 

This  our  only  epitaph : 
"  Here  the  jester  is  at  peace." 
34 


Clowns'  Day  35 

God  above!    We  merry  men 

Smile  and  caper  up  and  down, 
Sing  our  foolish  catches,  when 

Death  looks  sweet  to  many  a  clown. 

We  are  fain  to  weep  and  love, 
Pray,  and  think  of  mighty  things; 

Turn  our  dreamy  gaze  above, 
Mount  to  visions,  float  on  wings. 

Twenty  raptures  may  go  by 
Just  outside  the  big  white  tent; 

We  would  taste  them  ere  we  die, 
Since  for  this  our  life  was  lent. 

We  must  pace  the  little  ring ; 

Yet  Life  has  her  golden  goals 
For  us  all,  to  that  we  cling; 

Clowns  are  we, — but  living  souls ! 

Lads  in  motley,  brothers  dear, 

Gather  now  and  hark  to  me: 
April  Fools,  our  day,  is  here; 

Let  us  use  it  soberly. 


LITTLE  SISTER 

I  KNOW  a  girl  of  presence  fresh  and  fair. 

She  lies  abed  year-long,  and  so  has  lain 
For  half  a  lifetime ;  flower-sweet  the  air ; 

The  room  is  darkened  to  relieve  her  pain. 

There  is  no  hope  held  out  of  healing  her, 

You  could  not  blame  her  if  she  turned  her  face 

Sullen  unto  the  wall,  and  did  demur 
From  further  breathing  in  her  prison-place. 

Not  so :  her  sick-bed  is  a  throne,  where  from 
She  doth  most  royally  her  favors  grant; 

Thither  the  needy  and  the  wretched  come, 
She  is  At  Home  to  every  visitant. 

They  call  her  Little  Sister:  for  her  heart 
Goes  out  to  each  that  takes  her  by  the  hand, 

In  sisterly  devotion;  'tis  her  part 
To  feel,  to  succor,  and  to  understand. 

Unto  her  dim-lit  chamber  how  they  flock, 
The  seamy  folk,  the  weakling  and  the  base! 

There  is  no  sin  so  low  that  she  will  mock, 
No  shame  that  dare  not  look  her  in  the  face. 
36 


Little  Sister  37 

One  never  thinks  of  woe  beside  her  bed, 

So  blithe  she  bends  beneath  the  rigorous  rod; 

She  does  not  seem  like  one  uncomforted, 
Her  prayers  like  songs  go  bubbling  up  to  God. 

Hers  is  the  inner  secret  of  the  soul  ; 

Radiant  renouncement,  love  and  fellow  cheer, — 
These  things  do  crown  her  like  an  aureole, 

Making  her  saintly,  while  they  make  her  dear. 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  LAND 

WE  of  the  open  country, 

Men  of  the  ranch  and  range, 
Bronzed  of  skin  and  out  to  win, 

Men  of  the  landscape  strange, 

Hail  you,  and  bid  you  hither, 

Brothers  so  far  away, 
City-beguiled  and  greed-defiled, 

Into  the  air  of  day! 

Here  are  the  visions  splendid, 

Girdled  with  space  and  light ; 
Ride  where  you  will,  there  is  beauty  still, 

Breath,  and  the  body's  might. 

The  silver  gray  of  the  mesa, 

The  alkali  blotch  below, 
The  water  pool's  sheen  where  the  grass  grows  green, 

And  the  far  peaks  tipped  with  snow. 

The  great,  gaunt  scars  of  the  chasms, 
Where  the  pines  are  writhen  things, 

Small  of  girth  and  stunted  from  birth, 
Where  nothing  flies  or  sings. 
38 


Song  of  the  Open  Land  39 

Yellow  the  sands,  or  dappled, 

Up  where  the  foot-hills  wind, 
And  the  white  stream  leaps  down  the  canon  deeps 

,With  the  roar  of  beasts  behind. 

Myriad  changes,  myriad  moods, 

Oh,  the  glad  gamut  of  life ! 
Deserts  abloom  or  bare  as  doom, 

Places  for  sleep  or  strife. 

All  of  it  splendid,  all  of  it  ours ! 

Brother  by  brother  stand ! 
Ho,  for  the  West,  where  to  breathe  is  best, 

Hail,  from  the  open  land! 


THE  HOME-RETURNING 

'Tis  we  who  live  that  vagrants  are ;  the  dead 
Are  not  poor  outcasts  from  our  love,  but  rather 

The  seeking  souls  who  earlier  have  sped 
To  where  friends  gather. 

Just  every  little  while,  one  slips  away; 

Almost  we  hear  their  greeting  from  those  others : 
Our  loss  must  make  for  them  a  happy  day, 

Brothers  to  brothers! 

We  who  remain  draw  closer  each  to  each ; 

We  smile  as  best  we  may  with  each  tomorrow ; 
But  oh,  our  spirits  know  there  is  no  speech 

To  tell  our  sorrow ! 

Not  theirs  the  grief,  we  say,  not  theirs  the  grief; 

Our    ranks    grow    thin,    while    theirs    increase 

forever : 
No  hearth  a-cold,  no  falling  of  the  leaf, 

No  friends  that  sever. 

Until  we  long  to  be  of  their  good  cheer; 

Oh,  with  what  heartfelt,  wistful  yearning 
To  join  that  company  select  and  dear, 

The  home-returning! 

40 


ALLAN'S  MOTHER 

"  O  TO  be  twenty-five  again,"  she  cried ; 

And  he  mistook  her  meaning,  straight  replied : 

"  Nay,  you  are  fair  yet,  why  upbraid  the  years 

That  leave  you  comely ;  not  for  you  the  fears 

That  are  to  beauty  as  the  blight  to  flowers; 

Behold  you,  now  at  best  of  all  your  powers, 

Body  and  brain  alike.    You  are  as  young 

As  youth,  and  Time  sets  music  to  your  tongue, 

Sweet  wisdom  on  your  brow  doth  aptly  blend 

With  charm  of  eye  and  mouth, — believe  me,  friend." 

Like  one  bemused  and  in  a  wistful  dream, 
She  answered,  looking  toward  the  sunset  gleam : 

"  How  little  can  he  know  a  mother's  love, 
Brooding  deep  thoughts  man  may  not  reckon  of. 
I  would  not,  as  I  could  not,  set  them  back, 
The  years  since  then;  Time's  beckoning,  backward 

track 

I  know  is  treacherous;  but  I  am  fain 
For  his,  my  baby's  sake,  to  be  again 
In  semblance  what  I  was  before  he  slept. 

When  it  was  over,  and  I  had  not  wept, 
But  dry-eyed  faced  the  future,  one  thought  crept 

41 


42  Allan's  Mother 

Into  my  mind  to  haunt  me,  and  it  still 

Clings  close  and  stings,  and  works  its  awful  will: 

"  When  I  am  come  to  heaven  at  last  and  seek 
My  little  five-year-old,  my  darling  meek 
(So  meek,  so  white,  he  went  his  lonely  way!), 
I  sure  shall  find  him,  since  perpetual  day 
Shines  there,  and  all  unchanged  will  be  his  face, 
His  pretty  helplessness,  his  heedless  grace, 
Heaven  on  the  instant  home-like,  when  I  see 
My  Allan  all  alone  and  wanting  me — 

0  God,  O  God,  what  if  he  did  not  know 
His  mother,  whom  the  years  have  altered  sof 
What  if,  as  my  two  arms  went  round  him  there,    ' 
Crushed  to  my  breast,  and  dazed,  his  unaware 
Great  eyes  gave  back  no  memory  of  earth, 

And  I  the  stranger  and  the  child  whose  birth 
Made  me  a  living  soul,  were  not  made  one? 

"  God  knew  what  means  a  mother  and  her  son ; 
He  would,  it  seems,  have  whispered  to  my  dear : 

1  Lo,  it  is  she,  herself,  yea,  she  is  here.' 
And  yet,  and  yet,  forever  in  my  mind 
The  picture  stays,  it  lurks  and  looks  behind 
All  worldly  seemings, — till  I  needs  must  go 
Back,  back  again  into  the  Long  Ago 
When  I  was  young  and  he,  my  very  breath, 
Owed  everything  to  me — before  his  death. 
How  shall  I  meet  him,  when,  with  asking  eyes, 
My  darling  looks  at  me  in  Paradise  ?  " 


'Allan's  Mothe?  43 

She  shook  with  sobs;  the  man  stood  mute,  dis- 
tressed, 

But  laid  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  lest 
She  deem  herself  deserted  in  the  breach; 
Knowing  a  loving  touch  is  more  than  speech. 


TO  A  CRIPPLED  COMRADE 

MANY  a  year,  O  comrade  mine, 
Have  we  labored  side  by  side, 

Broke  the  bread  and  poured  the  wine 
Of  a  friendship  true  and  tried. 

Now,  all  suddenly,  you  cease 

From  your  work,  must  turn  from  me: 
Sit  and  wait  for  Death's  release 

Silent,  in  your  mystery. 

Crippled  friend,  'tis  not  alone 

You  that  wait  the  final  call. 
Time  must  every  man  disthrone, 

One  by  one  the  workers  fall. 

Cripples  all,  O  comrade  dear! 

Maimed  of  dreams  we  dreamt  in  youth, 
Marred  from  many  a  combat  drear, 

Blanched  before  the  face  of  Truth. 

Brother  cripples!     So  to  you 

Fellow  fortune  bids  me  say: 
"  Here's  a  friendship  tried  and  true, 

Time  can  never  take  away." 

44 


TO  EACH  HIS  DREAM 

WITH  each  his  little,  secret  dream 
We  wander  in  and  out  the  years: 

The  things  that  are,  the  things  that  seem, 
Are  mingled  with  our  smiles  and  tears. 

For  some  the  clue  is  from  the  skies, 
Others  would  find  in  mother  earth 

The  end  and  the  beginning :  lies 

Are  truth  to  some,  and  sorrow,  mirth. 

This  one  would  win  some  dear-sought  prize, 
And  that  attain  his  heart's  delight 

Through  love;  some  live  in  sacrifice 

For  the  few  hours  'twixt  day  and  night. 

Another  looks  beyond  what  Time 
May  tell,  his  dream  men  do  not  see: 

Upborne  by  visionings  sublime 
His  gaze  is  on  eternity. 

But  one  and  all  walk  lone,  are  led 
By  something  deep  within,  the  urge 

Of  action,  and  the  finer  bread 
That  feeds  a  spirit  on  the  verge 
45 


46  To  Each  His  Dream 

Of  perishing, — for  Life  is  not 
A  scene  without,  but  looks  to  where, 

Far  in  the  soul,  a  sacred  spot 
Is  kept  for  planning  and  for  prayer. 

Each  hath  his  little,  secret  dream 
And — be  it  glory  or  disgrace — 

Lo,  just  beyond,  a  starry  gleam 
Throws  back  a  wonder  on  each  face! 


THE  FAR-OFF  DAY 

WHENEVER  I  behold  a  little  bird 
Moving  and  singing  close  about  my  feet, 

All  unafraid — because  I  have  not  stirred — 
Of  brutal  blow  or  pitiless  bullet  fleet, 

Eager  to  meet  the  mood  which  I  profess, 

By  blithe  acceptance  of  my  friendliness, 

I  get  a  vision  of  the  far-off  day, 

Far-off  and  dim,  descried  by  faith  alone, 

When  all  the  tribes  of  Cain  have  passed  away, 
And  Love,  somehow,  has  come  into  his  own ; 

When  kindness  is  the  one  felicity, 

And  bird  and  beast  and  man  are  one  in  Thee. 


47 


FELLOWSHIP 

THEY  told  me  his  heart  was  a  stone, 

His  repentance  but  laughter, 
As  he  sat  in  his  durance  alone, 

The  awful  day  after. 

I  entered;  no  word  did  I  speak, 

But  stood  there  beside  him, 
Just  brother  by  brother,  too  meek 

To  sting  or  deride  him. 

And  sudden  the  floodgates  gave  way, 

The  strong  will  was  broken ; 
We  had  fellowed  as  erring  ones  may, 

Though  no  word  had  been  spoken; 

And  I  knew  I  had  brought  him  relief 
For  the  day  and  the  morrow, 

When  the  room  became  sacred  with  grief 
As  he  sobbed  out  his  sorrow ! 


FIRST  PRIZE 

(Euripides'  drama,  "The  Trojan  Women,"  when  it  was 
first  acted  in  415  B.C.,  was,  according  to  the  historian 
Aelian,  awarded  but  second  prize.  "  The  first  prize  was 
won  by  Xenocles,  whoever  he  may  have  been,"  says 
Aelian.) 

IN  Athens  of  old  when  the  women  wailed  of  war 
To  the  magic  of  melody  wrought  of  a  mighty  one, 

The  folk  who  listened  grudged  him  the  fitting  meed, 

Missed  the  meaning,  blind  to  a  higher  deed 
Than  any  deed  of  the  sword  beneath  the  sun; 

Message  of  ruth  sung  in  that  place  of  yore. 

Today,  with  the  world  shaken  with  turmoil  and 
tears, 

Peace  but  a  homeless  dream  by  a  fireless  shrine 
And  clash  of  armies  louder  than  all  the  seas, 
First  prize  goes  to  the  wise  Euripides 

Bidding  us  heed,  in  deathless  line  upon  line, 
Sorrow  and  pity  and  love,  across  the  years! 


49 


DREAM  GARDEN 

IN  sleep,  I  see  a  garden  fit  to  frame 

My  dreamings:   where  no   touch   of   the   world's 

shame 

Or  sorrow  or  the  death  of  joy  can  creep 
Into  the  shelter  of  that  happy  keep. 

This  winsome  garden  is  so  seeming-true 
It  does  not  need,  as  other  gardens  do, 
Tendance  and  toil ;  each  day  and  every  night 
It  blooms  and  breathes  and  lives  for  sheer  delight 

Of  being,  and  the  moss-green  dials  tell 
Time  only  to  declare  that  all  is  well. 

When  you  have  turned  from  her  whose  heart  alone 
Calls  to  your  heart,  to  make  it  quite  your  own, 
Leaving  the  pretense  and  the  outer  sin, 
Come  hither,  to  be  shrived  this  place  within. 

You  can  be  simple  midst  these  walks  of  flowers : 
No  disillusion  lurks  along  the  hours 
To  make  the  moonlight  less  than  morning  glad ; 
You  shall  forget  that  man  was  ever  sad; 

Even  the  homeless  winds  come  here  to  rest 
And,  cherished  warm,  to  learn  repose  is  best. 

50 


Dream  Garden  5 1 

The  walls  that  guard  you  and  the  growths  that 

fend 

Your  soul  from  thought  of  Life's  so  bitter  end, 
Alike  desire  to  close-encompass  you 
With  scent  and  song,  with  wonder  and  with  dew. 

The  hate  that  kills,  the  greed  whose  goal  is  death 
Evanish,  once  they  feel  the  balmy  breath 
Beneath  the  branches;  by  those  virgins  white, 
The  lilies,  passions  such  are  conquered  quite. 

If  there  be  struggle  in  the  far,  dim  ways, 

Bees  do  not  bruit  it  through  the  tranquil  days. 

All  flower- things  that  speak  of  soft  and  fair 
Flourish  and  give  their  fragrance  to  the  air; 
And  chief,  the  sweet  briar  roses,  small  and  dear 
And  petaled  pale,  they  most  inhabit  here. 

Dream  garden,  give  me  yet  again  to  drink 
Draughts  from  your  fountains,  let  me  by  the  brink 
Of  still,  oblivious  pools  rest,  and  recall 
My  youth,  and  find  old  faith  that  life  and  all 

It  holds  of  good  still  shines,  a  miracle, 

Nor  once  remember,  lulled  by  this  strong  spell, 

That  just  beyond  the  girdle  of  your  gates, 
Old  agonies  are  coiled,  and  parting  waits. 
Let  me,  dream  garden,  look  deep  down  the  eyes 
Of  love,  and  so  recapture  Paradise! 


SPRING  FANTASIES 

i 

MAY  DAY    IN    MARCH 

MARCH  with  her  madcap  winds,  March  with  her 
weather, 

Hath  vanished, — in  her  place 
Hath  come  such  day  of  grace 

As  May  might  bring:  you  wonder  whether 
Tis  all  a  dream, 

A  thing  light  like  a  feather, 

Blown  by  a  breath  to  nothingness  again. 

Birds  blithely  chirp,  buds  ope  to  tell  their  joy 
And  from  earth's  aged  mood  there  wells — 

Hark,  how  it  wells  and  swells! — 

The  clear  song  of  a  boy. 

The  robins'  rhyme, 
The  green  of  willows  by  the  turbulent  brook, 

The  pink  and  white  of  orchard  trees, 

The  odorous  arbutus  in  her  nook, 

All,  all  of  these 
Do  testify  their  gladness,— magic  time! 

A  month  before  her  coming-in,  the  earth, 
The  dear  old  foster  mother,  fain  of  life, 
52 


Spring  Fantasies  53 

To  beauty  and  to  hope  hath  given  birth, 

Twin  children  of  her  travail  and  her  strife ; 
And  man  walks  in  a  very  trance  of  bliss, 

Remembering,  remembering 

That  only  yesterday 

(It  seems  a  world  away!) 

No  wight  dared  sing 

Nor  any  earthy  thing 
The  tiniest  touch  of  green  and  white  display. 

But  now,  the  vernal  kiss, 
And  lo,  the  spring,  the  spring! 

Divine  foreteller  of  eternal  summer, 

Hail  and  farewell ! 
Before  thy  time,  thou  art  a  comer 

Bearing  a  promise  and  a  pledge: — 
That  when  the  frost  returns  and  May  shall  seem 

The  semblance  of  a  dream, 
Our  faith  may  yet  be  firm;  and  on  the  edge 
Of  rigorous  winter  we  may  know  thee  near, 
Thou  mystic  miracle ! 

Even  as  an  inland  wanderer  may  hear, 

Far  from  the  sea  voice,  as  he  straining  yearns 
To  catch  the  sound  of  billows, — faint  but  clear, — 
The  multitudinous  murmur  of  the  brine, 
And  doth  divine 

How  ever  round  all  lands  the  water-sphere, 
Open  and  splendid,  singing  as  she  turns, 
Past  plumed  capes  of  pine, 


54  Spring  Fantasies 

Beside  bland  meadows  or  by  dreary  sands, 
Or  skirting  cliffs  sun-soaked  and  keen  ashine, — 
Circles  all  shores  and  lifts  her  moving  tides 
Godward,  where  peace  abides. 

May  day  in  March,  the  soul  shall  find  thee  still 
A  foretaste  and  a  happy  prophecy 

Of  that  far-off,  that  wished-for  day 

When  beauty  conquers,  winter  fades  away 

Into  the  perfectness  of  halycon  weather 
And  the  world  wonders  whether 

'Twas  ever  anything  on  earth  but  May! 

ii 

THE  SPRING  RETURNS 

The  spring  returns!    Not  as  a  strange  newcomer, 
But  an  old  friend,  who,  just  before  the  summer, 

Comes  with  glad  tidings,  smiles  a  rosy  smile; 
Yet,  in  her  words  and  ways,  in  all  her  bearing, 
She  seems  like  one  from  some  far  outland  faring, 

That  may  but  linger  here  a  little  while. 

Then  in  the  orchards,  blossoms  pink  or  pearly, 
Apple  or  cherry  trees  are  blooming  early; 

You  glimpse  the  fresh-sprung  grass  the  leaves 

between. 

The  birds  begin  their  tentative,  sweet  speeches, 
And  all  along  the  winding  river  reaches 

The  willows  show  a  soft,  ineffable  green. 


Spring  Fantasies  55 

But  yesterday,  the  woods  were  drear,  tomorrow 
They  will  have  all  forgot  their  winter  sorrow, 

The  sap  will  run,  the  rigor  pass  away; 
And  in  the  open,  all  earth's  simple  creatures 
Take  heart  of  hope  and  don  their  sun-bright  fea- 
tures, 

While  hill  and  hollow  echo  with  their  play. 


And  when  spring  flits,  and  fuller  flush  of  splendor 
Usurps  the  delicate  hues  and  blushes  tender, 

Because  proud  summer  mounts  her  throne  again : 
Then  in  the  moments  twilight-touched  and  tristful, 
Memory  will  brood  these  dawns  and  evenings 
wistful, 

The  sad,  sweet  mood  of  a  young  soul  in  pain : 

Sweet  for  its  beauty,  sad,  because  it  never 
May  rest,  but  gypsy-like  fleets  on  forever. 


in 

THE  SYMBOL 

What  is  the  symbol  underneath  it  all, 

The  secret  message  of  the  throb  of  things : 
The  flower  tossings  and  the  whirl  of  wings, 

The  glow  and  scent  when  June  makes  carnival? 
'Tis  like  a  sweet  lost  word  of  some  old  speech 
Man  has  forgotten  yet  can  almost  reach. 


56  Spring  Fantasies 

Listen !    The  sap  doth  murmur  it,  the  rain 
Chants  it  in  sibilant  monotone,  the  breeze 
Lifting  a  voice  among  the  fluttered  trees, 

Takes  up  the  song,  repeats  it  once  again; 
And  all  the  movement  in  the  summer  grass 
Seems  pulsing  to  express  it  ere  it  pass. 


Ever  and  alway,  iterant  and  low, 

The  whisper  and  the  hint,  the  half-untold 
Suggestion  that  is  as  the  ages  old, 

Yet  fresh- faced  now  as  in  the  long  ago: 

"  Seek,  ye  shall  find,  for  you  and  I  are  one, 
Bound  each  to  other  since  the  years  begun. 


"  You  hear  the  call  of  kinship  in  my  voice, 
My  very  breathing  makes  me  part  of  you; 
The  gifts  I  offer  are  a  residue 

Of  your  inheritance  and  natural  choice; 
Man  is  not  man  who  hath  not  eye  to  see 
My  luminous  gloss  on  Nature's  mystery. 

"  Rich-languaged,     fraught    with    memories     and 

dreams, 

I  lure  you  back  in  sacred  moments  when 
You  learn,  oblivious  to  the  lore  of  men, 

The  lesson  of  the  forests,  fields  and  streams; 
Deep  at  my  heart,  deeper  than  all  my  mirth, 
The  long-witholden  meaning  of  the  earth." 


Spring  Fantasies  57 

In  syllables  of  beauty,  yea,  with  words 
That  move  like  music  through  the  summer  ways, 
Nature  doth  speak,  and  in  her  every  phrase, — 

The  choiring  rivers  and  the  lyric  birds, — 
She  draws  us  from  false  gods,  and  our  release 
Is  certified  by  joy  and  love  and  peace. 


IV 
HORN   AND  VIOLIN 

In  the  autumn,  in  the  weather 

Golden,  bronzed,  and  rich  with  sighs, 

When  we  paced  the  lanes  together, 
Dreamings  deep  were  in  your  eyes, 

Then,  O  Love,  'twas  like  the  sounding 
Of  a  mellow  horn  that  blows 

Veiled  yet  vibrant,  far-resounding 

Through  the  paths  the  woodland  knows. 

But  with  May  the  magic  changes, 
And  the  music  pants  and  pleads: 

Like  a  violin  it  ranges 
All  the  soul's  insistent  needs. 

All  the  hopes  and  pent  desires, 
All  the  daring  and  the  doubt; 

Like  to  strong  pluckt  strings,  the  fires 
Of  our  spirits  rushing  out. 


58  Spring  Fantasies 

In  the  autumn,  love  seemed  sober; 

Dear,  'tis  now  a  passioned  thing; 
As  the  horn  is  for  October, 

But  the  violin  for  spring. 


v 

ROAD  SONG 

The  world  is  wide  and  the  wind  smells  sweet, 
Wine-of-my  Life  is  the  thought  of  day. 

The  journey-lure  and  the  footfall  fleet, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away ! 

Joy  of  the  open,  joy  of  the  wood: 

Sun-drenched  meadow  and  pungent  pine; 

One  with  the  vagrant  brotherhood 
Under  the  vast  sky,  comrade  mine ! 

The  slanting  shadows,  too,  are  fair, 

Keen  is  the  afternoon  in  zest; 
Cool  to  the  brow  is  the  balmy  air; 

At  the  end  of  the  road  is  the  Inn  of  gest. 

There,  from  the  travel  stains  washed  clean, 

Better  to  sit  awhile  than  roam : 
Friends  foregather  for  talk,  I  ween, 

All  of  the  wanderers  trooping  home. 

The  sun  is  up,  and  the  blithe  birds  call; 
Then,  Ho  for  the  Inn  that  welcomes  all ! 


Spring  Fantasies  59 

VI 
RAIN  OVERNIGHT 

Can  it  be  possible  that  overnight 
Rain  roared,  wind  wailed,  and  Nature  wept  in 

woe? 
Clean-washed  and  shriven  now  the  heavens  are 

bright, 

Keen  scents  rise  from  the  earth ;  each  leaf's  aglow 
With  sparkling  life,  and  rivers  in  their  flow 
Give  louder  voicing  to  their  old  delight. 

Call,  if  you  will,  this  day  a  respite  brief 

'Twixt  dark  and  other  dark  to  come,  more  drear ; 

I  only  feel,  with  every  bird  and  leaf, 
How  beautiful  it  is  and  blessed  and  dear; 
I  only  ask  to  live,  and  know  how  near 

Is  Love  to  life,  how  beauty  neighbors  grief! 

VII 
AS  FLUTES  OF  ARCADY 

The  purity  of  water  and  the  peace 
Of  wind-still  air:  the  placid  scent  of  pines, 
Warming  my  heart  as  with  the  waft  of  wines; 
The  murmuring  of  hidden  brooks,  the  fleece 
Of  foam-topped  rivers,  and  the  splendid  space 
Of  sky  above,  with  all  its  interlace 
Of  blue  and  white  and  gold, — O  these  to  me 
Do  plead  as  plead  the  flutes  of  Arcady, 
Bidding  my  sorry  stressfulness  to  cease. 


60  Spring  Fantasies 

For  then  I  take  for  truth  the  poet's  dream: 
There's  naught  in  all  the  world  save  only  good; 

Little,  fair  children,  love  no  parting  kills, 
Romance  through  the  tree-branches  soft  agleam, 
Beauty  that  lies  await  by  field  and  wood, 
And  hero-deeds  along  a  hundred  hills ! 


ASPECTS  OF  AUTUMN 

i 

IN  the  wonder  of  their  weaving  lie  the  forests  and 

the  fields; 
Rich  the  broodings  of  October,  rich  the  magic  that 

it  wields, 
With  the  marvel  of  its  color  like  the  sparkles  in 

old  wine 
And  the  music  of  its  breathing  from  the  tops  of 

ancient  pine. 

There  are  dusky  purple  shadows  in  the  cool  of 
yonder  trees, 

But  the  open  plains  shine  yellow  down  the  corn 
shocks'  companies. 

Oaks  in  bronze,  and  birches  candid,  somber  hem- 
locks make  a  ring 

Girdling  round  the  green  of  meadows  that  seem 
strayed  from  some  lost  spring. 

And  the  ebon  crows  in  cohorts  'gainst  a  sky  of 

drowsy  blue 
Make  a  music  harsh  yet  strangely  mergent  with  the 

landscape's  hue. 
Thus  a  splendid  beast  recumbent,  with  his  skin  of 

tawny  glow, 
Sun-soaked,  satisfied,  might  stretch  him  where  the 

jungle  rivers  flow; 

61 


62  Aspects  of  Autumn 

Thus  a  rug  of  silken  texture,  mellowed  by  the  dust 

of  years, 
Might  be  laid  before  a  princess  to  enchant  her  from 

her  tears. 

Tranced,  superb,  and  deep  in  dreaming,  do  you  lie, 

this  day  of  days, 
League  on  league  of  autumn  landscape,  in  the  vast 

horizon  haze; 
And  the  umber  of  your  furrows  and  the  russet  of 

your  red 
Seem  to  garb  some  great  earth  spirit  rising  sheerly 

from  the  dead 

To  resume  the  elder  keeping  of  an  age  of  Innocence, 
When  to  look  was  joy,  and  breathing  sent  a  thrill 

through  every  sense, 
When  Pan's  pipe  still  fluted  golden  where  in  dance 

the  wood  nymph  whirled, 
And  my  Love  and  I  went  footing, — in  the  first 

dawn  of  the  world! 


II 

Ah,  Autumn,  now  that  you  and  I  must  part, 
You  linger,  goldenly,  your  footstep  slow, 

Even  as  a  friend,  beloved  of  the  heart, 
Seems  doubly  dear  just  ere  he  turn  to  go. 


Aspects  of  Autumn  63 

You  pause  by  noon,  deep  sighing  through  the  trees, 
And  in  the  spangled  sunset  hold  your  breath, 

That  I  may  note  your  splendid  symphonies 
Of  color,  that  the  night  shuts  in  to  death. 

Your  leaves  rain  down  and  prank  the  forest  ways 
With  tapestries  of  yellow,  red  and  brown, 

And  through  the  glooming  glory  of  your  haze 
I  glimpse  the  dreaming  towers  of  the  town. 

October  odors  between  sod  and  sky 

Remind  me  of  the  faith  of  earthly  things, 

As  if  you  murmured,  "  Surely,  by  and  by 

I  shall  come  back,  with  birds  and  errant  wings." 

The  sweet  and  strong  communion  'twixt  us  two 
Is  more  than  all  the  mouthings  among  men; 

You  are  not  beautiful  alone,  but  true ; 
I  bide  the  season  till  you  come  again. 

And  O  be  sure  of  one  fond  heart,  that  waits, 
Loving  and  longing,  midst  of  wintry  fear, 

Until,  once  more  aglow,  you  ope  the  gates 
Of  harvest,  and  fulfil  the  fruitful  year. 


in 

When  autumn,  pranked  in  sober  pageantry, 
Returns  to  earth  and  broods  along  the  sky, 

Then  are  the  field-fires  lighted,  and  men  see 
Blue  smoke  uprise  from  brush  heaps,  far  and  nigh. 


64  Aspects  of  Autumn 

A  pungent  smell  is  in  the  nostrils,  dim 

Athwart  the  sun  tRe  haze  makes  luminous  gold; 

Deep  in  the  distance,  on  the  horizon's  rim, 
The  spirals  fade  in  wreathings  manifold. 

The  tang  and  gray-blue  mist  and  crackle  fine 
Blend  in  to  stir  the  secret  place  of  tears; 

I  hear  a  message  I  may  scarce  define 
From  immemorial  autumns  of  lost  years. 

Upwelling  from  the  heart  come  storied  dreams, 
The  campfires  of  my  fathers  seem  to  glow 

In  primal  forests,  and  yon  smoke-trail  seems 
A  painted  picture  of  the  long  ago. 

The  feel  of  fall,  the  brooding  trance,  the  fire 
Whose  smoke  crawls  up  to  make  of  heaven  a  blur, 

All  seem  a  link  between  the  son  and  sire, — 

They  bring  them  back,  the  wayfarers  that  were 

Upon  the  earth,  like  us,  alert  and  strong, 
Feasting  or  fasting,  underneath  the  sun, 

But  now  mist-hid,  evanished  like  a  song, 
Yea,  utterly  forgotten,  every  one. 


IV 

How  can  I  all-express  this  golden  mood 
Of  sky  and  russet  field,  river  and  hill? 


Aspects  of  Autumn  65 

Some  absent  God  returns,  and  solitude 

Shines  with  his  presence  till  our  souls  o'erfill. 
Memory  and  hope  are  married,  and  earth's  dreams 
Are  deep,  ah,  deeper  than  the  deepest  streams ! 


HEROES 

"  MOTHER,  I  read  of  heroes,  kings, 

Of  folk  with  trappings,  folk  with  wings; 

Where  live  they,  will  they  ever  come 

To  see  me  in  my  little  home? 

Are  there  such  beings,  fair  and  wise, 

And  have  they  feet  and  hands  and  eyes  ?  " 

"  My  child,  you  saw  but  yesterday 
A  hero :  when  he  came  this  way, 
You  gave  him  scarce  a  single  glance; 
He  wore  no  crown,  he  bore  no  lance, 
He  seemed  but  made  of  common  clay. 

"  And  just  an  hour  ago,  there  stood 
Before  you — O  so  great  and  good! 
One  who  will  sit  with  God  for  aye, 
When  the  brief  years  are  rolled  away." 

"  But,  mother,  in  the  books  I  read 
They  walk  like  kings,  they  do  indeed; 
How  could  they  come  and  go,  and  I 
Not  know  that  they  were  passing  by  ?  " 

"The  tales  are  true,  my  dear,  there  be 
Kings,  heroes,  saints,  in  history; 
66 


Heroes  67 

Romance  and  legend  fitly  tell 
Of  what  they  did,  and  what  their  spell; 
Their  deeds  are  bright  like  burnished  gold, 
In  chronicles  and  records  old." 

"  How  could  I  miss  their  being  here  ?  " 

"  They  did  not  seem  like  saints,  my  dear, 
Nor  heroes,  when  they  drew  so  near." 


THE  CHILDREN'S  BOATS 

0  LITTLE  loop  of  water,  with  the  green 

Of  girdling  grasses  round  your  lustered  sheen, 
Where  are  the  boats  the  children  used  to  ride 
Upon  the  bosom  of  your  dimpled  tide? 
Those  boats  they  loved,  and  launched  with  large- 
eyed  zest 
On  Orient  faring  or  for  Polar  quest? 

Where  are  the  boats, — and  where  the  children,  too  ? 
Have  they,  as  such  explorers  often  do, 
Sunk  with  their  ships?    Or  do  they  haply  find 
The  new  is  like  the  old  they  left  behind: 
Their  deep-sea  conquests  and  their  valiant  claims 
To  far-found  earth  are  naught  but  childish  games? 

1  know  not,  but  I  know  they  are  not  here, 
These  young  adventurers  of  y ester  year. 

Is  it  because  November,  keen  with  frost, 
Is  come,  or  are  the  tiny  strayers  lost? 
I  listen,  and  I  wait;  perhaps  the  spring 
Will  lure  them  back,  and  with  the  first  bird's  wing 
Up  in  the  blue,  again  shall  spread  the  sails 
That  took  the  sunlight,  or  that  dared  the  gales : 
Perhaps, — when  comes  the  May :  or  must  it  be, 
In  that  far  spring  men  call  Eternity  ? 

68 


DON  QUIXOTE 

SMILES  for  him,  yes,  and  tears — but  most  of  all 
Envy,  for  that  he  set  his  soul  to  win 

Virtue  and  love  and  valor,  and  their  call 
Upbore  him  ever  above  sleight  and  sin. 

His  Dulcinea  was  of  common  earth  ? 

And  Sancho  Panza  scarce  a  trusty  squire? 
Not  so :  mistimed  our  pity  and  our  mirth ; 

They  live  forever,  in  his  soul's  desire. 

Shiningly  sure  the  Spanish  Don  was  right, 
Who  saw   the   world   through   eyes   with   faith 

agleam ; 

This  melancholy,  madcap,  errant  knight, 
Who  wrought  so  beautifully — in  his  dream! 


THE  SECRET  PLACE 

WHEN  I  shake  off  the  outer  things 
That,  thronging,  drag  me  fifty  ways — 

The  busy  needs,  the  little  stings 
That  hum  about  my  usual  days — 

I  come  into  a  secret  place 

And  meet  my  true  self,  face  to  face. 

Quiet  removal  from  the  press, 

A  breathing-room  wherein  the  soul 

Knows  love  and  love's  own  tenderness, 
And  in  a  dream  descries  the  goal; 

There  wholesome  thoughts  and  sweet  confer, 

Like  garments  laid  in  lavender. 

Anew  I  feel  that  I  belong — 

Alien  and  outcast  though  I  be — 

To  the  great  Spirit  whose  far  song 
Makes  an  ineffable  harmony  ; 

And,  with  a  rhythm  in  my  feet, 

I  fare  me  forth  my  fate  to  greet. 


VIGIL 

WHY  should  it  irk  me,  the  night, 
After  the  day  that  is  done? 

Stars,  making  distant  delight, 
Dew-pools,  instead  of  the  sun? 

Soft,  cool  winds,  and  the  scent 
Of  gardens,  silent  and  sweet ; 

Why  should  I  lack  of  content, 
Joys  like  to  these  at  my  feet? 

Ah,  but  the  hours  are  long 
Ere  I  may  haste  from  afar, 

Seeking  your  face  like  a  song, 
Seeking  your  soul  like  a  star ! 

Winds,  waters,  skies,  be  my  friend, 
Grant  me  swift  sleep,  and  to  wake 

Swiftly,  my  waiting  at  end, — 
Dearest,  be  mine  with  daybreak! 


SONG 

(On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Poet) 

SAD  little  heart,  overburdened  with  dream, 
Must  you  cease  so  soon? 
Give  over  the  tune, 
And  the  dream? 

Valiant  you  were,  for  a  day  brief  and  bright; 
Now,  comes  your  rest, 
Tranquil  and  blest, 
In  the  night. 

They  who  keep  faith,  have  not  kept  it  in  vain. 
Courage,  fond  heart, 
Glad  was  your  part, 
Sweet  your  strain. 

Therefore,  sing  on,  every  note  of  you  heard; 
Winter  or  May, 
Sounds  night  and  day 
Your  clear  word. 

Blithe,  buried  singer,  sing  on,  for  our  sake ! 
Gone  is  the  pain, 
Never  again 
The  heart-break ! 

72 


CONQUERING  EAGLES 

I  READ  the  classic  book— and  raised  mine  eye 

To  where,  with  sun-tipped  spears,  went  storming 

by 
A  great,  armed  host.     The   splendid  roads  were 

thronged 
With  all  the  trappings  that  to  war  belonged. 

Next,  I  beheld  how  figures  stately,  slow, 
With  filleted  calm  brows  drew  past;  and  lo, 
A  temple  white,  within  whose  pillared  porch 
I  saw  the  sacred  fires  leap  like  a  torch. 

Then,  close  beside  the  waves  that  seemed  to  say 
With  silver  itinerance,  All  shall  pass  away, 
Loomed  large  a  Senate  house  where  flocked  and 

fought 
The  men  who  for  the  great  Republic  wrought. 

While  sharp  against  the  saffron-colored  sea 
(How  it  comes  back  to  musing  memory !) 
Swayed  to  and  fro  the  swollen  tides  of  folk, 
The  hewers  and  the  builders  at  their  work. 

73 


74  Conquering  Eagles 

High  from  a  hill,  swept  sounds  of  song  that  fell 
Upon  the  city  like  a  miracle; 
The  feet  of  heroes,  like  as  rhyme  to  rhyme, 
Fell  into  harmony  and  kept  march  time. 


All  this  I  saw.     Still  rule  the  spirit  these 
Enshrined  shapes  from  out  the  centuries; 
Still  cry  along  a  sky  that  seems  their  home 
The  conquering  eagles  of  imperial  Rome! 


THE  MESSAGE 

I  WALKED  a  lane  where  overarching  trees 
With  shade  and  shine  made  woodland  witcheries; 
Earth  odors  mingled  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 
And  shift  of  shadows  told  the  passing  hours. 

And  sudden,  in  that  place  so  hushed  and  hid, 
The  silence  that  companioned  me  was  thrid 
By  a  thrush  note  that  spoke,  not  to  my  ear, 
But  to  my  soul  from  out  some  vanished  year. 

There  seemed  to  issue  from  that  swelling  breast 
Some  secret  brooded  on  as  dear  and  best 
Through  long,  sweet  sessions;  all  the  doubt  and 

dread 
Resolved  themselves  into  calm  faith  instead. 

There  was  nor  pain  nor  parting  but  would  turn 
Unto  the  better  thing  toward  which  we  yearn; 
"  Trust  on,  trust  on,"  the  singer  seemed  to  say, 
"  The  Good  shall  come,  though  it  be  far  away." 

Because  I  might  not  see  the  singer  there, 
His  voice  came  all  the  clearer  through  the  air; 
Had  he  been  close,  and  plain  before  my  gaze, 
I  might  have  missed  him  in  the  woodland  ways. 

75 


76  The  Message 

All  the  day  through,  it  haunted  me  and  clung, 
The  message  that  the  tree-hid  thrush  had  sung; 
And  in  my  dreams  that  night  I  heard  again 
The  note  divine,  the  wood-begotten  strain. 


GUILTY 

I  LOATHE  this  room,  for  it  seems  to  blab 

A  hideous  secret  I  would  hide ; 
With  its  sly,  straight  chairs,  its  wall-paper  drab, 

Its  corners  cool  and  its  hearthstone  wide. 

Invisible  hands  reach  forth,  as  fain 

To  clutch  at  Something;  and  here  and  there 

Lurk  shadowy  heads;  and  moans  of  pain, 
Dulled  down  by  dust,  invest  the  air. 

Dark  innuendoes  and  ugly  hints, 

Too  delicate  to  be  more  than  guessed, 

Move  o'er  the  floor;  in  the  very  tints 
Of  the  curtains  evil  is  dim-expressed. 

.Whene'er  I  enter,  I  feel  the  jeers ; 

The  mirrors  mow  at  me,  face  to  face; 
Noon  and  night,  'tis  a  nest  for  fears, 

A  sneaking,  pitiless,  hellish  place. 

Open  the  windows,  throw  back  the  door, 
Let  wind-sweet  sunlight  flood  in  and  shine! 

But  O  for  my  soul  as  it  was  before, — 
The  spirit  that  dwells  here  is  mine,  is  mine ! 
77 


HAGAR 

SAID  Hagar :  "  Nay,  I  cannot  see  him  die, 
My  little  lad,  my  dear,  my  only  one." 

For  bread  and  water  failed  her,  sheer  on  high 
Shone,  hot  and  horrible,  the  desert  sun. 

That  tiny  cry  wailed  ever  in  her  ears : 

She  lifted  up  her  voice  and  wept;  she  said: 

"  His  father  loved  us  not."    The  happy  years 
In  Egypt  ran  like  music  in  her  head. 

Ishmael,  the  archer,  shaggy,  strong  and  wild, 
For  a  great  end  was  saved  that  bitter  day. 

He  who  was  but  a  perishing,  wee  child, 
Through  mother-love  was  snatched  from  death 
away. 

And  Hagar  was  full  happy;  who  can  know 
The  feel  of  bliss  like  one  who  once  was  sad? 

Hagar  was  happy,  as  she  watched  upgrow 
To  might  and  masterhood  her  tender  lad. 

And  in  old  age — great  time  of  memories — 
How  oft  she  must  have  sat  beside  some  well 

Of  water,  set  about  with  slender  trees, 
And  mused  on  Abraham  and  Ishmael ! 
78 


HUMAN 

WEIGHED  down  by  grief,  o'erborne  by  deep  despair, 
She  lifted  up  white  arms  to  heaven  and  prayed 

That  day  for  death;  she  made  a  mighty  prayer 
Beside  her  dear  one  gently  to  be  laid. 

And  standing  thus,  it  flashed  across  her  mind 
How  she  must  make  a  seemly  silhouette 

Against  the  sky,  her  figure  sharply  lined 
Upon  the  westering  sunlight,  black  as  jet. 


79 


WITHDRAWALS 

LOOK  on  his  face,  so  aged,  so  set,  so  white: 

What  evil  one  has  cast  his  horoscope? 
What  is  the  lack  that  makes  him  old  tonight? 
Hope. 

Why  sits  he  statue-like,  from  head  to  feet? 

His  body  holds  no  pulse  of  blood,  meseems; 
What  was  the  voice  once  sang  to  him  so  sweet? 
Dreams. 

But,  surely,  still  some  star  must  gleam  for  him; 

Some  glittering  friendship  of  the  sky  above? 
What  has  he  lost  that  trances  life  and  limb? 
Love. 

Hope,  dreams  and  love,  'tis  these  he  fed  upon, 
They  were  his  baubles  and  his  very  breath. 
What  now  is  left  to  him,  so  wondrous  wan? 
Death. 


80 


YOUNGSTER  AND  OLDSTER 

i 

"  Is  she  not  fair? 

Behold,  how  her  hair 

Haloes  her  head,  and  those  spirit-blue  eyes, 

See,  how  they  lift  to  the  stars,  to  the  skies! 

None  can  compare 

With  her,  my  lady,  the  soul  in  her  face 

Set  like  a  lamp  to  illumine  the  place." 

ii 

"  She  walks  well,  and  her  gown  is  deftly  worn ; 
Tonight,  she's  almost  beautiful;  the  morn 
Is  like  to  show  more  plain  the  path  of  years ; 
But  now,  yes,  truly,  all  my  doubts  and  fears 
Are  laid  to  sleep,  and  for  an  hour  or  two, 
Ah,  foolish  me,  I  dream  as  others  do !  " 

Tell  me,  Sir  Critic,  you  to  error  loath, 
Is  one  right,  or  the  other — or  are  both? 


81 


BETTER  SO 

HELEN  and  Heloise  and  Joan  of  France, 
Ruth  and  Griselda,  Mary  with  her  tears, 

Beautiful  stricken  women  of  Romance, 

What  are  they  all  but  dreams  from  out  the  years  ? 

I  cannot  hold  them,  hear  them,  kiss  their  feet ; 

But  now  beside  me,  close,  and  O  so  fair, 
You  come,  and  I  enfold  you,  find  you  sweet, 

Dazed  with  the  splendor  of  your  eyes  and  hair ! 


82 


GARDEN  CLOSES 

EARTH  buffets  and  harasses 
Her  children,  day  by  day; 

Pricked  on  by  harsh  endeavor, 
Debarred  of  prayer  and  play, 

Chasing  a  Shade  forever, 
Man  fares  by  perilous  passes, 
Till  he  be  bent  and  gray. 

But  Life, — how  deep  the  kindness 
That  saves  us  from  despair! 

Hath  eke  her  garden  closes 
Where  all  is  calm  and  fair; 

Some  place  of  rest  and  roses 
Where-  man  puts  off  his  blindness 
Of  canker  and  of  care. 

There  music  sounds,  clear-hearted, 
And  star-eyed  women  smile, 

There  friends,  estranged  in  seeming, 
Forget  their  former  guile; 

Above,  to  help  the  dreaming, 
The  clouds  are  soft  disparted 
By  warm,  sweet  moons  the  while. 


84  Garden  Closes 

Into  this  sacred  haven 
Of  health  and  happy  lure, 

Come  marred  and  haunted  faces 
To  taste  a  pleasure  pure; 

In  this  most  dear  of  places 
What  word  or  wish  is  craven 
These  walls  may  not  immure. 

So,  frayed  upon  sharp  edges 
Of  knives  that  cut  full  deep, 

Our  own  lost  souls  pursuing, 
We  may  thereafter  creep 

Away  from  sordid  doing, 
Behind  these  holy  hedges 
For  solace  and  for  sleep. 


THE  OLD  COUPLE 

A  PAIR  of  oldsters,  humble  folk,  come  straying 
Along  the  street;  their  hands  are  linked,  they 
smile 

Like  comrades  who  are  fain  to  go  a-maying, 
Their  cares  forgot  the  while. 

A  little  basket  bears  their  food,  their  faces 
Are  rosy-wrinkled  and  their  eyes  so  bright 

You'd  say  that  they  were  bound  for  fairy  places 
Of  far-away  delight. 

But  nay ;  in  sooth,  their  fond  intent  is  only 
To  rest  an  hour  or  so  the  fields  among, 

Where  flowers  blow  free  and  clouds  sail  high  and 

lonely 
And  lays  of  birds  are  sung. 

For  they  are  country-bred  and  so  the  city 

Saddens   their  hearts,   week-long   immured   for 

toil; 

They  know  the  ugliness,  the  want  of  pity, 
Where  myriad  workers  moil. 
85 


86  The  Old  Couple 

Quaint  is  their  garb;  his  coat  is  out  of  fashion, 
Her  bonnet  never  won  an  envious  glance; 

But  watch  his  care,  his  almost  lyric  passion 
Her  comfort  to  enhance, 

And  see  how  she  repays  it,  dumb  or  speaking, 
By  every  look  and  tone  and  turn  of  head.   .    .    . 

Onward  they  go,  the  open  country  seeking, 
There  to  be  comforted. 

'Tis  not  when  we  are  young,  in  time  of  roses — 
Roses  and  bird-songs  and  the  bloom  of  youth — 

Love  shines  most  beautiful  and  full  discloses 
The  wonders  of  his  worth. 

Old  and  uncouth?     Not  so;  by  every  gesture 
They  stand  confessed :  the  faith  in  them  is  seen. 

The  twain   have   donned   Love's  bright  immortal 

vesture : 
Behold  them — king  and  queen! 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ROSE 

SAID  the  child  to  the  rose :  "  I  would  that  I 
Might  rest  in  a  pretty  garden  close, 

fo  feel  the  wind  as  it  brushes  by, 
To  play  with  every  flower  that  grows; 

It  must  be  sweet  in  the  summertide 

To  watch  the  buds  as  they  open  wide," 
Said  the  child  to  the  rose. 

Said  the  rose  to  the  child :  "  And  I  would  be, 
Like  you,  a  creature  sweet  and  mild, 

Safe-housed  from  weathers  winterly 
And  warmed  with  love  all  undefiled ; 

Tis  cold  for  sleep  when  the  night  is  near, 

And  the  time  till  morning  goes  full  drear/' 
Said  the  rose  to  the  child. 

They  had  their  will :  for  the  rose  one  day 
Was  plucked  and  worn  in  a  ballroom  gay, 
.Where  the  air  was  stifling  hot, — and  so 
It  shrunk  and  died  in  the  fierce,  brief  glow. 

The  child,  a  woman  pinched  and  white, 
In  after  years,  on  a  winter's  night, 
Lay  in  the  garden,  took  her  rest, 
Dead,  with  a  baby  at  her  breast. 
87 


THE  DERELICT 

(The  derelict  schooner  Reindeer  has  been  sighted  off 
Cape  Henlopen.  She  has  one  hundred  cases  of  dynamite 
aboard. — Daily  Newspaper.) 

O,  A  derelict  on  the  open  sea, 

A  ship  whose  crew  is  fled, 
Is  a  somber  thing  for  memory, 

A  body  whose  soul  is  dead ! 

She  floats  at  will  of  every  wind, 

She  drifts  as  currents  set; 
And  all  her  joy  is  far  behind, 

And  all  her  hope,  regret. 

Her  spars  loom  up  against  the  sky, 

Her  hulk  is  black  and  low ; 
And  sullenly  she  passes  by 

The  craft  that  homeward  go. 

Her  secret  grim  would  blanch  the  bold, 

Unsinew  e'en  the  brave; 
For  dynamite  is  in  her  hold 

And  she  above  the  wave. 

From  Saragossa  waters  far 

Into  the  Gulf  Stream  bland, 
This  barque  has  wandered,  by  no  star 

Sure  piloted  to  land. 
88 


The  DereUft  89 

The  horrid  freight  her  bosom  hides 

Has  given  charmed  life 
Unto  her  course,  and  safe  she  rides 

Above  the  billows'  strife. 


All  sail-sped  things  will  give  her  berth ; 

E'en  birds  that  beat  the  air 
Will  cease  their  clamorous,  aery  mirth, 

Feeling  her  presence  there; 

And  monsters  underneath  the  blue 
Sheer  off,  what  time  her  nose 

Their  watery  regions  pushes  through 
And  down  their  sea-walks  goes. 

How  terrible  the  thought  of  night 

To  every  human  soul 
That  meets  the  ship  and  knows  her  plight, 

Her  cargo  and  her  goal. 

For  when  the  darkness  leaves  a  maze 

Of  bourneless  brine  alone, 
And  sailors  guess  their  devious  ways 

Across  the  vast  unknown, 

Ah,  God,  to  run  her  down,  to  shock 

Against  her  fateful  deck: 
A  hell  of  noise,  a  shuddering  rock 

Of  sea  and  sky  and  wreck, 


90  The  Derelict 

Then  yawningly  her  self-made  doom 
Would  gulf  her  down  at  last; 

A  water-worn  and  dim-lit  tomb 
Redeem  her  fearsome  past. 

But  woe  betide  her  rescuer! 

For  pitilessly  she 
Will  rend  and  drag  him  down  with  her 

Into  the  under  sea ! 


FACE  TO  FACE 

LONG  weeks  I  walked  the  city's  crowded  ways, 
And  vainly  sought  to  find  you,  morn  and  night; 

By  daybreak,  when  the  lamps  were  all  ablaze, 
And  when  the  noon  was  bright. 

But  when  I  turned,  and  with  the  will  to  flee 
Unto  some  dim  and  all-deserted  place, 

Have  hurried  here  where  only  God  may  see, — 
I  meet  you,  face  to  face ! 


THE  CAMBERWELL  GARDEN 

(Browning  was  born  May  7,  at  Camberwell,  a  suburb  of 
London.) 

MAY  hath  her  own  blithe  beauty,  nor  doth  need 

The  other  loveliness  of  human  deed 

And  human  fellowship;  yet  doubly  fair 

She  seems  to  brood  o'er  Camberwell,  since  there 

Once  walked  the  lad  who  made  of  blooms  and  birds 

His  cronies,  knew  their  winsome  ways  and  words. 

Far  did  he  wander;  many  a  mile  away, 
And  many  a  year,  he  saw  the  face  of  May, 
Rosy,  recurrent,  in  Italian  nooks 
Uplifting  summer  arms  and  Siren  looks. 
This  month  of  melody  and  warmth  and  shine 
Is  welcome  to  the  heart  of  man  as  wine. 

Ah,  but  at  Camberwell  each  sound  and  sight 
And  scent — sure  ministers  to  his  delight — 
Were  interwove  with  dewy  memories 
Stronger  and  sweeter  than  from  overseas ; 
And  wheresoe'er  his  feet  in  faring  turned, 
Whiles,  for  that  garden-place  he  must  have  yearned. 

He  who  comes  back  to  greet  an  old,  dear  friend, 
And  finds  him  gone,  knows  it  is  not  the  end, 

92 


The  Camberwell  Garden  93 

But  lovingly  awaits  the  gladder  day 
When  all  friends  gather  in  from  faraway. 
So  maiden  May  comes  back  and  waits  for  him 
In  grass  and  flower  and  every  greening  limb. 


Long  gone  the  garden,  and  the  singer  too 
Sleeps  otherwhere ;  but  still  the  sky  is  blue, 
Spring  scents  are  rife,  old  magic  still  beguiles, 
And  May  in  Camberwell  recalls,  and  smiles. 


GARDEN  LORE 

THERE'S  a  flowery  shrub  the  May  brings 

(Never  mind  the  name), 
Tis  enough  to  know  its  color  sings 

Like  a  living  flame ; 

And  my  heart  sings,  looking  at  it  there 

In  my  garden  small ; 
Of  the  growths  so  many  and  so  fair, 

Fairest  of  them  all. 

For,  what  time  I  stood  and  asked  the  bloom 

"  Shall  I  ever  be 
Happier  than  in  this  scented  room 

I  am  now  with  thee  ?  " 

Then,  uplifting  graciously  the  head 

(How  the  garden  hums!) 
Soft  but  clear  the  flowery  creature  said: 
"  When  your  lady  comes ! " 


94 


THE  SECOND  BAPTISM 

WHEN  tiny  babes  we  touch  on  brow  and  breast, 

Making  them  God's  the  while, 
We  murmur:  "Take  and  keep,  Thy  keep  is  best," 

And  tearfully  we  smile. 

And  when,  lapsed  back  to  childhood's  witless  ways, 

All  helpless  in  our  hands, 
Poor  souls,  they  walk  as  in  a  dim-lit  haze — 

What  myriads  in  what  lands ! — 

Then,  with  awed  lips,  we  look  to  the  divine, 

Striving  to  still  our  fears, 

And  say :   "  They  seem  not  ours,   they  must  be 
Thine,"— 

Wetting  them  with  our  tears. 


95 


THE  SPIRIT  SHALL  NOT  DIE 

"Yet  some  men  say  that  King  Arthur  is  not  dead,  but 
had  by  the  will  of  Lord  Jesu  into  another  place ;  and  men 
say  he  shall  come  again  and  he  shall  win  the  Holy  Cross." 
— SIR  THOMAS  MALORY. 

ARTHUR,  the  peerless  king,  went  out  upon 
The  tide  and  left  Sir  Bedivere  alone; 

Who,  reft  of  his  liege  lord,  the  well-loved  one, 
Stood  wailing  by  the  marge  and  made  his  moan. 

With  Arthur  all  was  well,  but  with  his  realm 

111 — now  the  lawless  days  drew  nigh  to  whelm. 

And  many  said  that  he  would  come  again: 
Haply  they  meant  return  in  youthful  might, 

Girt  up  and  ready  to  wipe  out  the  stain 
Of  erring  years,  and  trumpet  in  the  right 

Which,  he  a-gone,  had  faded  from  the  land, 

So  that  it  drooped  beneath  the  heathen  hand. 

It  is  not  thus  he  shall  come  back ;  yet  truth 
They  spake  who  so  declared;  for  all  the  deeds 

He  did  were  deeds  of  gentleness  and  ruth 
And  virtue,  and  whoever  sows  such  seeds 

Shall  bring  forth  fruit  again  in  spirit,  him 

Time  cannot  quell,  nor  death  itself  bedim. 

96 


The  Spirit  Shall  Not  Die  97 

Yea,  Arthur  shall  return  and  still  return, 
Till  all  the  earth's  good  souls  are  blent  as  one, 

Till  steadily  in  hearts  of  men  shall  burn 

Love  that  shall  leap  like  fire  from  sun  to  sun ; 

Return  from  Avalon,  and  evermore 

Kindle  the  faith  of  those  beside  the  shore. 


AN  IMPRESSION 

THE  arching  skies,  the  ancient  wind 
Soughing  through  immemorial  trees; 

The  sense  of  all  that  lurks  behind 
The  year's  now  tattered  masonries, 

.Where  the  blithe  birds  once  built  their  home 

High  in  the  air-sweet,  leafy  dome. 

Then,  the  lone  figure  of  a  girl 

Clear-limned  against  the  buttressed  hills ; 
Slim,  beautiful,  a  tiny  pearl 

Set  round  with  ruby  light  that  fills 
The  all-illumined  spaces  where 
No  dark  may  creep  nor  shadow  dare. 

Not  for  an  earldom  would  I  break 
The  silence  of  yon  dreaming  maid ; 

I  could  not  play  her  soul  awake 
With  Love's  most  magic  serenade; 

Her  thought  holds  secrets  hid  from  me, 

Deeper  than  mortal  minstrelsy. 


98 


LOVE  AND  TIME 

THE  longest  night  of  the  year,  they  say; 

By  four  of  the  clock,  the  dark  comes  down, 
And  the  hills  loom  dim  and  far  away, 

While  the  lights  wink  out  in  the  big,  vague  town. 

And  yet,  O  Love,  of  the  nights  I  know, 
This  night  was  briefest, — so  brief,  so  blest 

For  you  came  and  gave  me  your  heart,  and  so 
Time  was  nothing  and  darkness  best! 


99 


ROMANCE 

You  say  Romance  is  dead,  you  conjure  up 
Fond  images  of  some  idyllic  time 

When  elves  were  building  in  each  buttercup 
And  goblins  set  the  church-bells  all  a-chime. 

When  men  rode  out  to  battle  for  the  right 
In  armorings  that  like  the  sun's  self  shone, 

And  rescued  ladies  from  some  hapless  plight 
Of  durance  grim,  or  love  that  plained  alone. 

When  gods  disported  them  as  mortal  folk, 
When  all  the  rivers  and  each  tiny  stream 

Must  have  a  tutelary  nymph,  each  oak 
Its  hamadryad,  and  each  night  its  dream. 


Step  to  the  window,  look  upon  the  street : 
See  yonder  woman  flaunt  her  jewels  rich, 

A  milkmaid  once;  and  see  that  girl  so  sweet 
Yet  pitiful;  and  nuzzling  in  the  ditch 

A  man  who  oft  has  swayed  a  multitude ; 

Mark  how  yon  cripple  cries  his  tawdry  wares 
And  think  of  him  blithe-limbed  in  boyhood's  mood ; 

Look  how  the  harlots  lure  souls  to  their  lairs. 
100 


Romance  ioi 

Watch  yonder  thief  sneak  by,  and  close  beside, 
A  pure-eyed  nun  who  plans  some  holy  deed ; 

Think  how  each  story  blends  to  swell  the  tide 
Of  human  histories  and  hearts  that  bleed. 

Then  speak  no  more  of  olden,  golden  days, 
Of  mythic  creature  and  of  magic  rill; 

Be  the  true  artist,  walk  these  modern  ways; 
Here  are  your  tools:  go,  fashion  at  your  will! 


THE  DEAR  ADVENTURER 

(In  Memoriam:  John  S.  Bradstreet) 

O  DEAR  adventurer,  once  more  dost  thou 
Fare  forth  into  the  outlands,  o'er  far  seas! 

Nothing  can  come  of  strange  unto  thee  now, 
For  travel  was  thy  wont,  thy  argosies 

Were  rich  and  many;  where  thy  bark  was  turned 

Friends  met  thee,  and  for  thee  a  home-light  burned. 

Surely,  some  day,  as  often  in  the  Past, 
Keen-eyed  and  brown,  sweet  smiling  as  of  yore, 

Thou  wilt  come  back  to  live  with  us  at  last, 
Thy  shadow  ever  grateful  at  our  door : 

Bringing,  the  while  we  marvel  at  thy  wares, 

An  aromatic  breath  from  Otherwheres. 

Or  if  it  be  that  we  instead  must  go 
To  find  thee,  friend,  all  gentle  and  all  true, 

Eager  and  waving  wilt  thou  stand,  we  know, 
To  bid  us  welcome  when  the  voyage  is  through; 

O  what  a  meeting  will  be  there,  what  flowers, 

What  talk,  what  treasures  shown,  what  shining 
hours ! 


103 


IDOLS 

THEY  made  them  idols  in  the  elder  days, 
Idols  and  images  of  brass  and  stone, 

To  bow  before  their  semblance,  when  the  praise 
Should  go,  O  God,  to  Thee  and  Thee  alone. 

Yet  who  shall  say  how  much  of  tender  trust, 

Of  deep-heart  adoration  and  desire 
Was  hid  behind  these  symbols  of  the  dust 

That  rose  like  smoke  to  dim  the  central  fire  ? 

How  often,  in  those  heathen  hearts,  indeed, 
Ardent  and  upwardly  there  must  have  burned 

A  flame  of  worship,  an  imperious  need 

To  clasp  and  kiss  the  thing  toward  which  they 
yearned. 

Midst  of  the  mystic  Orient  today, 

Far  in  the  north,  or  where  the  great  South  Seas 
Circle  the  islands,  gather  still  to  pray 

The  myriad  folk  whose  faith  is  like  to  these. 

Rebuke  them  not :  even  as  a  root  at  birth 
Feels  upward  to  the  light,  these  simple  men 

Foredream  the  flower  and  darkly  from  the  earth 
Salute  the  mystery  beyond  their  ken. 
103 


GLIMPSES  OF  ITALY 

i 

IN   AN   ITALIAN   HILL  TOWN 

I  MISSED  the  uses  of  my  mother  tongue; 

Afire  with  Beauty,  yet  I  scarce  could  speak 
A  few,  poor  stammering  words,  hard-wrung 

From  lips  inapt.    So,  through  a  silent  week 
Of  dreamful  isolation  wandered  I, 
The  dumbest  thing  between  the  sod  and  sky. 

But  heaven  sent  me  token,  after  while : 
A  wee  bambino  waved  a  chubby  hand 
At  me,  the  stranger,  in  the  open  street ; 
Smiling,  it  waved ;  I  found  it  very  sweet, 
This  wordless  converse ;  both  could  understand 
The  universal  language  of  a  smile! 


ii 

THE  CLOISTER  GARDEN  AT  CERTOSA 

It  is  a  place  monastic,  set  above 
The  city's  pride  and  pleasuring  below; 

The  benediction  of  the  sky  breathes  love 
Over  the  olive  trees  and  vines  a-row. 
104 


Glimpses  of  Italy  105 

The  old  gray  walls  are  dedicate  to  prayer 
And  silence;  in  the  corridors  dim-lit 

Lurks  many  a  painting,  many  a  fresco  rare 
Done  by  some  brother  for  the  joy  of  it. 

Pale  lavender  and  red  pomegranate  trees, 
Roses  and  poppies  spilling  garden  sweets; 

And  tall  lush  grass  and  grain,  and,  circling  these, 
The  cool  of  cloistral  walks  and  shadowed  seats. 

By  a  sun-dial  in  the  center,  rests 

One  brown-robed  Father;  and  his  lips  recite 
Some  holy  word;  little  he  heeds  the  jests 

Of  those  who  make  the  world  their  chief  delight. 

While  Florence,  far  below,  from  dreamy  towers 
Throws  back  the  sun  and  tolls  the  tranquil  hours. 


in 

OLD   STORY-TELLING 

(At  the  Villa  Palmieri,  situated  on  a  hill  outside  Flor- 
ence, according  to  the  old  tradition,  gathered  the  lords  and 
ladies  of  a  summer  evening  to  hear  the  stories  set  down 
by  Boccaccio  in  the  Decameron, — while  below  the  plague 
raged  in  the  city.) 

Heedless  gay  folk,  lying  at  ease  amid 

The  fruits  and  flowers,  far  above  the  town 

Whose  evil  case  from  them  was  duly  hid 
By  olive  gardens  stretching  down  and  down ; 


io6  Glimpses  of  Italy 

There,  in  the  scented  evenings  long  ago, 
They  laughed  and  listened  in  the  afterglow, 
To  tales  eternized  by  Boccaccio. 


IV 
FRA  ANGELICO 

They  called  him  angel  brother,  for  his  smile 

Was  amiable  like  angels,  and  he  loved 

To  paint  them  ever  on  the  convent  walls; 

Yea,  in  his  very  cell  he  made  them  sing 

And  praise  and  weep  Lord  Jesus  and  the  Maid, 

While  all  his  fellow  monks  looked  raptly  on. 

No  wage  he  took  for  work,  and  ne'er  began 

To  paint  an  angel  till  he  breathed  a  prayer; 

And  by  that  prayer  and  from  that  dreaming  hand 

Came  pictures  tremulous  with  worshiping, 

Till  all  beholding  them  are  fain  to  say: 

"Angelico,  the  artist,  loved  what  things 

Are  high  and  holy,  and  his  tender  soul 

Shines  through  his  colors  and  his  saintly  forms, 

And  shows  to  men  a  half -forgotten  heaven." 

The  flower-like  name  of  Florence  sounds  twice  fair 
Because  he  worked  within  her  walls  of  fame; 
And  on  the  heights  of  lovely  Fiesole 
Floats  like  a  Presence  his  so  pure  renown 


Glimpses  of  Italy  [IOJ 

v 

LIKE  P^ESTUM'S  TEMPLE 

Moments  there  are  that  loom  up  from  the  past 
Tarnished  yet  beautiful ;  we  deemed  them  dead, 
Their  old-time  witchery  forever  fled ; 

Not  so ;  for  of  a  sudden,  all  unasked, 

Lo,  they  return  to  rule  our  souls  at  last; 
So  fresh,  so  fair,  they  almost  seem  to  shed 
A  lovelier  light  than  in  the  years  long  sped, 

Weaving  a  wonder  that  is  unsurpassed : 

Proud  vistaed  arches,  gleams  of  broken  stone, 
Columns  superb,  blithe  statues  buried  deep 
Until  exhumed  from  immemorial  sleep 

To  be  beloved  as  our  household  own: 
Like  Paestum's  temple,  tranced  beside  the  sea, 
Radiant  with  dreams  and  ancient  extasy. 


APERCUS 


CHANGED 

A  MOMENT  gone,  and  you  were  flesh  and  blood, 

An  obvious  beauty,  any  day  may  see ; 
But  as  death's  night  enwraps  you,  and  the  flood 

Of  life  recedes,  you  seem  to  glide  from  me 
And  of  a  sudden  to  be  mystical 

As  pampas  grass  around  a  midnight  pool ; 

Delicate,  still,  and  hidden  in  the  cool. 
Love,  is  it  death,  or  but  a  moon-kisst  spell  ? 


ii 

PETITION 

The  big  world  balks  and  puzzles  me, 

I  know  not  what  I  truly  am ; 
Lord,  grant  me  grave  humility, 
Sturdy  with  courage  would  I  be, 
Yet  docile  as  an  upland  lamb. 


108 


'Aperqus  109 

in 

MULIER   MUTABILE 

Three  bitter  things  of  womankind  I  see: 

A  young  girl  who  has  given  utterly, 

And  wakes  to  know  her  hero  common  clay. 

A  mother  bending  on  a  morn  of  May 
Over  her  little  dead; 

A  creature  lewd, 

Wearing  the  semblance  of  a  merry  mood, 
The  lures  of  sight  and  sense  her  only  treasures, 
Grown  old,  and  shrunk,  and  forced  to  leave  her 
pleasures. 


IV 
ETIQUETTE 

I  called  on  my  soul  one  spring-like  day, 
And  left  my  card,  for  I  found  him  out ; 

My  soul,  polite,  came  up  my  way 
And  called,  but  I  was  not  about. 

So  we  missed  each  other,  and  never  grew 

To  be  good  friends,  as  some  folk  do. 


MUSIC  MYSTERY 

TELL  me,  O  Music,  why  the  bliss  you  bring 
Comes  edged  with  pain  from  every  shaken  string? 
"  We  are  but  wraiths,"  the  woodwinds  wailed  reply, 
"  Born  to  be  beautiful — but  born  to  die." 


no 


HIGH  AND  LOW 

UPON  the  heights  they  rested;  looking  down, 
"What   shuddering   depths/'   she   said,    "thank 

God,  afar!" 
But  he :  "  Twas  thence  we  climbed  to  reach  the 

crown ; 
O  Love,  I  bless  what  brought  us  where  we  are." 


in 


VITA  BREVIS  EST 

THE  gray  thing,  life,  and  the  bright  thing,  love, 
The  earth  beneath  and  the  heaven  above; 
Swift  chance,  swift  change,  be  it  worst  or  best, 
Then  the  woven  boughs,  and  the  long,  cool  rest. 


112 


WORDS  OF  PARTING 

THE  words  of  parting  in  our  English  tongue 
Are  heavy-fraught  with  tenderness  and  tears : 

We  speak  them  first  when  life  and  love  are  young, 
And  then  repeat  them  all  the  after  years : 

Good-by,  Farewell,  over  and  o'er  again, 

Old  words  of  parting  and  of  hidden  pain ! 

Good-by,  we  call,  and  wave  uncertain  hands, 
Farewell,  and  wonder  shall  we  find  some  day 

The  friend  who  goes  far  forth  to  other  lands, 
The   more-than-friend,   whose   steps   must   turn 
away. 

O,  the  sweet  kindnesses  our  tongues  would  tell, 

Yet  we  can  only  say,  Good-by,  Farewell. 

Sometimes   the   words   seem  light,   and   lips   that 
smile 

Do  utter  them,  where  jest  and  song  are  free  ; 
Yet  these  same  jesters,  in  a  little  while, 

May  speak  their  burden  slow  and  solemnly: 
Farewell,  Good-by,  the  revel  now  is  done, 
We  weep  alone  before  the  morrow's  sun. 

We  build  us  homes,  we  strive  for  happiness, 
So  eager  is  our  clinging  and  so  sweet ! 
113 


114  Words  of  Parting 

We  lift  strong  barriers  against  distress, 
But  our  Forevers  are  so  frail,  so  fleet. 
Good-by,  Farewell,  we  say  it,  soon  or  late; 
They  are  the  syllables  that  spell  our  Fate. 

The  words  of  parting  in  our  English  speech 
Are  magical  with  meanings  left  unsaid; 

Earth-warm  they  are,  yet  have  a  heavenly  reach, 
They  sound  above  the  living  and  the  dead: 

You  hear  our  heart-beats  in  a  brief  Good-by; 

Farewell, — our  very  souls  are  in  that  cry! 


THE  NEW  POETRY 


CHICAGO  POEMS 

By  CARL  SANDBURG.    $1.25  net. 

In  his  ability  to  concentrate  a  whole  story  or  picture  or 
character  within  the  compass  of  a  few  lines,  Mr.  Sand- 
burg's work  compares  favorably  with  the  best  achieve- 
ments of  the  recent  successful  American  poets.  It  is, 
however,  distinguished  by  its  trenchant  note  of  social 
criticism  and  by  its  vision  of  a  better  social  order. 

NORTH  OF  BOSTON 
By  ROBERT  FROST.    6th  printing,  $1.25  net. 

"The  first  poet  for  half  a  century  to  express  New  England 
life  completely  with  a  fresh,  original  and  appealing  way  of  his 
own." — Boston  Transcript. 

"An  authentic  original  voice  in  literature." — Atlantic 
Monthly. 

A  BOY'S  WILL 

By  ROBERT  FROST.    3rd  printing,  $1. 00  net. 
Mr.  Frost's  first  volume  of  poetry. 
"We  have  read  every  line  with  that  amazement  and  delight 

which   are  too   seldom   evoked  by  books  of   modern   verse." — 

The  Academy  (London). 

THE  LISTENERS 

By  WALTER  DE  LA  MARE.    $1.20  net. 

Mr.  De  la  Mare  expresses  with  undeniable  beauty  of 
verse  those  things  a  little  bit  beyond  our  ken  and  con- 
sciousness, and,  as  well,  our  subtlest  reactions  to  nature 
and  to  life. 

" and  Other  Poets" 

By  Louis  UNTERMEYER.    $1.25  net. 

Mirth  and  thought-provoking  parodies,  by  the  author 
of  "Challenge"  of  such  modern  Parnassians  as  Mase- 
field,  Frost,  Masters,  Yeats,  Amy  Lowell,  Noyes,  Dob- 
son  and  "F.  P.  A." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


THE    HOME    BOOK   OF    VERSE 

"A  collection  so  complete  and  distinguished  that  it  is  difficult 
to  find  any  other  approaching  it  sufficiently  for  comparison." — 
JV.  y.  Times  Book  Review. 

Compiled  by  BURTON  E.  STEVENSON 

Collects  the  best  short  poetry  of  the  English  language — not 
only  the  poetry  everybody  says  is  good,  but  also  the  verses  that 
everybody  reads.  (3742  pages,*  India  paper,  complete  author, 
title  and  first  line  indices.) 

The  most  comprehensive  and  representative  collection  of 
American  and  English  poetry  ever  published,  including  3,120 
unabridged  poems  from  some  1,100  authors. 

It  brings  together  in  one  volume  the  best  short  poetry  of  the 
English  language  from  the  time  of  Spenser,  with  especial  atten- 
tion to  American  verse. 

The  copyright  deadline  has  been  passed,  and  some  three 
hundred  recent  authors  are  included,  very  few  of  whom  appear 
in  any  other  general  anthology,  such  as  Lionel  Johnson,  Noyes, 
Housman,  Mrs.  Meynell,  Yeats,  Dobson,  Lang,  Watson,  Wilde, 
Francis  Thompson,  Gilder,  Le  Gallienne,  Van  Dyke,  Wood- 
berry,  Riley,  etc.,  etc. 

The  poems  are  arranged  by  subject,  and  the  classification  is 
unusually  close  and  searching.  Some  of  the  most  comprehen- 
sive sections  are:  Children's  rhymes  (300  pages)  ;  love  poems 
(800  pages)  ;  nature  poetry  (400  pages)  ;  humorous  verse  (500 
pages)  ;  patriotic  and  historical  poems  (600  pages)  ;  reflective 
and  descriptive  poetry  (400  pages).  No  other  collection  con- 
tains so  many  popular  favorites  and  fugitive  verses. 

India  Paper  Editions 

Cloth,  one  volume,  $8.00  net, 
Cloth,  two  volumes,  $10.00  net. 
Half  Morocco,  one  volume,  $12.50  net. 
Three-quarters  Morocco,  two  volumes,  $18.00 
net. 

EIGHT  VOLUME  EDITION  ON  REGULAR  BOOK 
PAPER.      SOLD  IN  SETS  ONLY.     $12.00  NET. 


HENRY       HOLT      AND       COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


mi 


LD  21-100m-12, '43  (8796s) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


